2^ 


^Mto  A.   . 


BUDDY'S  BLIGHTY 

AND  OTHER  VERSES 
FROM  THE  TRENCHES 


CAPTAIN    JACK    TURNER,  M.C. 
Canadian  Expeditionary  Force 


BUDDY'S  BLIGHTY 

AND  OTHER  VERSES 
FROM  THE  TRENCHES 


BY 

JACK  TURNER,  M.C. 

Canadian  Expeditionary  Force 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNAKD  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1918,  ' 
By  small,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

(incoepoeated) 


8.  J.  Passhili.  &  Co.,  SOSTOH,  n.S.A. 


DEDICATION  AND  APOLOGY 

TO  YOURSELF 

"  I  often  wonder  what  the  vintners  buy- 
One  half  so  precious  as  the  stuff  they  sell"— 
So  marvelled  he,  who  sang  of  love  and  wine, 
Of  life  and  death,  of  Heaven  and  of  Hell. 
And  now  he  lies  at  peace,  nor  sings  at  all, 
In  that  fair  garden  where  the  rose-leaves  fall. 

So,  as  I  sit  and  scatter  ink  and  try 
These  weak  and  wandering  verses  to  indite, 
I  often  wonder  what  the  rhymesters  know 
One  half  so  foolish  as  the  stuff  they  write; 
But  still  I  scrawl  — the  Lord  above  knows  why 
One  who  knows  nought  of  poetry  should  try. 

But,  'cross  in  Flanders,  when  the  rain  was  cold, 
The  trenches  muddy  and  the  Germans  rough. 
To  keep  from  feeling  sorry  for  myself 
I  took  to  spoiling  paper  with  this  stuff; 
It  helped  me  pass  a  dismal  hour  or  two  — 
I  only  hope  'twill  do  the  same  for  you. 

J.  T. 
St.  John's,  Newfoundland, 
October,  1917. 


m2685;^4 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Dedication  and  Apology v 

Buddy's  Blighty i 

The  Rag-Time  Army ii 

The  Aeroplane 15 

The  Lucky  Dug-Out 17 

"  Yellow  " 19 

"  It  Sounds  to  Me  " 27 

Ode  to  Macconachie 32 

Bill 35 

Ypres 40 

Responsibility 43 

''  No  Man's  Land  " 49 

Over  the  Wall 52 

Mud 56 

Mathematics 59 

Reflections  of  a  Tommy 63 

Music 66 

The  Wandering  Men 7^ 

Pay  Day 17 

Dawn  —  April  9TH,  1917 83 

Shell-Shock 87 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  One  Way  Trail 90 

A  Hundred  Years 94 

Luck 96 

The  Hindenburg  Line 98 

Ballad  of  Booze 100 

A  Minor  Operation 102 

Evolution 107 

The   Infantryman's   Opinion   of  the  In- 
fantry       113 

Ils  Ne  Passeront  Pas  ! 117 

Fed  Up 119 

Law  —  AND  Other  Things 122 

Before  Zero 128 

The  Sniper 131 

"Up  the  Line" 134 

The  Price 139 

Still-Hunting     . 145 

Anticipation 149 

"Stunts  —  Ancient  and  Modern  "    .     .     .151 

The  Dud 155 

Crosses 157 

Two  Men 159 

Fags 162 

Zero  Minus  One  ..........  167 


BUDDY'S  BLIGHTY 

AND  OTHER  VERSES 
FROM  THE  TRENCHES 


BUDDY'S  BLIGHTY 

Buddy  Baldwin,  Broncho-Buster,  used  to  ride  the 

range  a  heap, 
He  looked  at  things  in  terms  of  cows,  and  always 

held  that  sheep  — 
And  sheep-men,   too  —  were  vermin,  that  they 

counted  mighty  low 
And,  compared  with  cows  and  cow-men,   why, 

they  didn't  even  show. 
(This  has  no  bearing  on  my  tale  —  I  only  tell 

it  'cos 
It  gives  you  some  idea  of  the  kind  of  guy  Bud 

was.) 
Cow-man   first,    last   and   all   the   time  —  Bud's 

Bible  was  the  book 
Where  breeds  and  brands  were  registered,  and 

Buddy  always  took 
The  view  that  walking  is  no  way  of  covering  the 

ground. 
And  riding  is  the  only  way  to  navigate  around. 
If  you  vv^ant  to  picture  Buddy,  bear  in  m.ind  these 

little  things  — 

I 


BUDDY'S  BLIGHTY 

Imagine  him  as  built  of  wire  and  highly  tempered 

springs  — 
With  the  little,  deep-carved  wrinkles  'round  the 

corners  of  his  eyes 
That  are  brands  of  open  country  and  unbounded 

space  and  skies  — 
Six  feet  high,  brown  as  an  Injun  —  leaner  than 

the  law  allows, 
And  his  deepest  interests  poker,  brands,  range, 

cayuses  and  cows. 

Now,  Buddy,  he  was  range-boss  for  the  Diamond 

Curly  O, 
(Down  beside  the  Rio  waters,  where  the  spiky 

cactus  grow) 
It  chanced  the  Diamond  Curly  O  sold  quite  a 

good-sized  bunch 
Of  horses  to  an  English  mob,  then  Buddy  took  a 

hunch, 
And  signed  to  act  as  valet  to  those  horses  on  the 

boat, 
(Though  the  thought  of  so  much  water  pretty 

nearly  got  his  goat). 
When  he  got  his  high  heels  planted  good  and  firm 

on  English  ground. 


BUDDY'S  BLIGHTY 

He  thought  he'd  step  across  to  France  and  have  a 
look  around. 

So  he  blew  his  roll  in  London,  in  a  gorgeous  jam- 
boree. 

And  then  settled  down  to  soldier  with  the  Canuck 
Infantree. 

Now,  I  first  ran  into  Buddy  in  an  Hospital  in 

Kent, 
Where  a  bunch  of  Army  Doctor-guys  had  sent  me 

to  repent 
Of  the  foolishness  of  stopping  German  shrapnel 

with  my  head  — 
There  I  found  old  Buddy  Baldwin  holding  down 

the  nearest  bed. 
Well,  I  told  him  all  my  sorrows  and  he  told  me 

all  his  woes 
(And  what  was  lies  and  what  was  truth,  I  guess, 

God  only  knows), 
And  Bud  told  me  all  about  his  trip  to  Blighty  from 

the  line, 
(He  was  sure  a  fluent  liar  and  he  made  it  listen 

fine). 
Though  I'm  much  inclined  to  doubt  it,  maybe 

one  per  cent,  is  true. 


BUDDY^S  BLIGHTY 

But  it  sounded  quite  convincing,  so  I'll  hand  it 
out  to  you. 

"  We  was  jammed  up  in  the  Salient,  and  she  was 

some  swell  hole, 
**  With  the  trenches  all  as  shallow  as  a  tin-horn 

gambler's  soul  — 
'*  An'  the  mud  as  deep  as  blazes,  an'  the  Huns 

a-raisin'  hell  — 
"  I'd  seen  some  rotten  holes  before,  but  that  one 

rung  the  bell. 
"  Oh,  she  sure  was  good  and  lively  —  in  a  quiet 

kind  of  way. 
**  With  the  guns  a-poundin',  poundin',  poundin', 

poundin',  night  and  day; 
*'  Then   some   chesty   Hun   commander   thought 

he'd  start  a  little  fuss 
"  Just  to  boost  his  reputation  —  and  he  started 

in  on  us. 
*'  Yep,  he  thought  he'd  rise  the  Canucks,  just  to 

boost  his  name  a  bit  — 
"  Did    he    help     his     reputation  ?  —  there     was 

nothing  left  of  it 
'*  When  that  little  game  was  finished  and  we  reck- 
oned up  the  score, 


4 


BUDDY'S  BLIGHTY 

"  I  don't  think  hell  go  a-gunnin'  for  the  Canucks 
any  more." 

*'  Me  ?  I  cashed  in  kind  o'  early-Hke,  and  this  is 
how  it  come  — 

"  'Twas  the  second  merry  evenin',  and  they  sure 
was  sheUin'  some  — 

"  The  air  was  full  of  concentrated  hell  and  fly  in' 
steel, 

*'  An'  the  way  things  kept  a-movin'  kind  o'  made 
a  fellow  feel 

"  Pretty  sure  he'd  go  to  Heaven  by  the  high  ex- 
plosive route, 

"  For  old  Fritz  was  workin'  everything  that  could 
be  made  to  shoot. 

"  Well,  I  just  had  got  to  feelin'  that  I  didn't  give 
a  damn 

"  How  blamed  soon  they  quit  their  foolin',  when 
there  came  an  awful  slam, 

*'  An'  a  dozen  locoed  earthquakes,  an'  a  lunatic 
typhoon 

*'  Was  a-messin'  up  the  quiet  of  that  pleasant  aft- 
ernoon. 

"  The  old  earth  bucked  like  a  broncho  and  jumped 
up  to  touch  the  sun, 

5 


BUDDY'S  BLIGHTY 

"  Then  she  split  into  a  milHon  stars,  an'  I  was 

ridin'  one; 
"  An'  a  nine-point-two  came  rampin'  up,  a-pawin' 

up  the  ground 
"  With  a  Broncho-Buster,  chapped  and  spurred, 

a-ridin'  him  around, 
"  An'  he  says  to  me, — *  Say,  Buddy,  'spose  we  go 

out  on  the  prowl, 
"  Let's  go  an'  see  the  elephant  and  listen  to  the 

owl,' 
"  So  I  dumb  up  there  behind  him,  on  his  lopin' 

nine-point-two, 
"  An'  we  rambled  thro'  a  mesa  where  the  cactus 

was  all  blue, 
"  Till  his  broncho  started  buckin'  an'  he  piled  me 

good  an'  high, 
**An'  I  met  a  gallowampus  bird  a-roostin'  in  the 

sky. 
"  He  had  fourteen  wings  an  seven  eyes  an'  whis- 
kers on  his  ears, 
"  An'  he  chased  me  all  around  the  range   for 

seven  thousand  years, 
"  Till  I  ran  into  a  gopher  hole  and  met  a  grizzly 

bear 
"  A-chattin'  with  a  rattlesnake,  beneath  a  prickly 

pear. 

e 


BUDDY'S  BLIGHTY 

"  That  there  unconverted  insect  was  a-smokin'  a 

cigar, 
"  An'  I  says  — '  Say,  Mr.  Rattler,  can  you  tell 

me  where  we  are  ?  ' 
'* '  Sure,'  says  he,  '  as  sure  as  shootin'/  but  before 

he  got  half  done 
"  I  see  a  bunch  of  timber  wolves  a-comin'  on  the 

run. 
"  An'  says  one  to  me,   *  We  know  you,   'taint 

no  use  for  you  to  speak, 
**  *  You're  the  guy  that  rode  for  Sage  Brush  Sam, 

on  Little  Chulu  Creek,' 
"  Then  he  winked  at  me  most  knowin',  an'  he 

wagged  his  bushy  tail, 
"  An'  he  turned  himself  clean  inside  out  an'  trot- 
ted up  the  trail. 

'*  While  I  stood  there,   dumb  and  helpless  —  I 

was  too  darned  'mazed  to  think  — 
"  A  pale  pink  moon  came  swimmin'  thro'  a  sea  of 

blue-black  ink, 
"  A-huntin'  for  a  baby-wolf,  branded  X  circle  Y, 
"  An'  I  felt  so  sorry  for  that  moon  I  started  in 

to  cry, 
"The  salt  tears  they  kept  fallin'  till  the  flood 

reached  to  my  chest, 

7 


BUDDY'S  BLIGHTY 

"  Then  I  see  a  big  black  nigger  in  an  armour- 
plated  vest, 
"  With  two  guns  hangin'  at  his  belt,  come  wadin' 

through  the  flood, 
"  An'  he  says, — '  I'm  kind  o'  lost  'round  here,  now 

could  you  tell  me,  Bud, 
"  '  If  steers  is  fifty  on  the  hoof,  an'  whiskey  two 

bits  per, 
"  *  How  far  would  you  allow  it  is  to  Coquahallus 

Spur?' 
"  So  I  figured,  an'  I  figured,  but  I  couldn't  make 

it  right, 
"  An'    that    coon,    he    started    shrinkin'    till    he 

shrunk  plumb  out  of  sight. 

"  But  his  guns  they  swelled  an'  bloated,  like  a 
cow-hide  in  the  wet, 

"  'Til  they  grew  to  twelve-inch  howitzers,  all 
loaded  up  an'  set 

"  A-pointin'  right  square  at  me,  an'  I  couldn't 
bat  an  eye, 

*'  Then  a  lizard,  wearin'  leather  chaps,  perambu- 
lated by, 

"  He  nods  to  me  most  friendly,  an'  then,  '  Buddy, 
Boy,'  says  he. 


8 


BUDDY'S  BLIGHTY 

"  '  I  met  a  pal  of  yours  last  week,  they  call  him 

Pat  McGhee, 
"  *  An'  he  asked  me,  if  I  saw  you,  just  to  tell  you 

he  was  well '  — 
*'  Then  he  yanked  the  fxrin'  lever,  an'  I  gave  an 

awful  yell. 
"  I  didn't  hear  the  gun  go  off  —  I  didn't  feel  no 

jar, 
"  But  I  felt  myself  a-fallin',  faster  than  a  shootin' 

star, 
"  Through    a    million,    million,    million,    million 

miles  of  fleecy  clouds, 
"  An'  it  seemed  that  there  was  people  all  around 

me  there  in  crowds, 

*'  All    a- whisper  in'    an'    a-talkin'.     Then    I    felt 

almighty  sure 
"  I'd  be  stoppin'  pretty  sudden  if  I  fell  a  little 

more, 
"  An'  I  felt  a  hundred  different  aches  an'  forty 

kinds  of  pain, 
'*  An'  those  people  were  a-talkin',  I  could  hear 

'em  good  an'  plain. 
*'  An'  says  one,  '  Why,  just  look,  Doctor,  I  believe 

he's  comin'  to,' 


BUDDY'S  BLIGHTY 

"  Another  says,  *  Yes,  so  he  is,  I  guess  we'll  pull 

him  through." 
"  Then  I  takes  a  look  around  me,  an'  what  do 

you  think  I  see  ? 
"  Just  three  nurses  an'  a  doctor,  standin'  lookin' 

down  at  me, 
"  I  had  splints  an'  pads,  and  bandages  wherever 

they  would  fit, 
"  I  was  perforated  proper,  but  I  didn't  care  a  bit, 
"  For  I  knew  I'd  said  a  long  good-bye  to  bombs 

an'  shells  an'  mud 
"  An'  was  safe  in  bed  in  Blighty  —  an'  that's 

good  enough  for  Bud." 

Note  :—"  Diamond     Curly-O "    brand,    is    the    letter    Q 
(called  curly  O)  inscribed  in  a  diamond. 

"Seeing  the  elephant  and  hearing  the  owl"  is 
the  South- Western  term  for  going  on  a  big 
time. 


lO 


THE  RAG-TIME  ARMY 

They  call  us  the   Rag-time  Army,   and  maybe 

they've  named  us  right, 
Our  drill  may  be  kind  of  ragged  —  but  say,  have 

you  seen  us  fight? 
For  drilling  is  only  drilling,  but  fighting's  a  good 

man's  game, 
And  a  scrap  with  the  Rag-time  Army  has  never 

been  voted  tame. 
We're  kind  of  a  hybrid  outfit  —  we're  soldiers 

and  civies,  too  — 
Just  civies  dressed  up  in  khaki,  determined  to  see 

things  through 
Till  the  Kaiser  is  trimmed  to  a  finish  and  Fritzy 

has  jumped  the  ring; 
Though  we  may  not  scrap  by  the  book  of  rules 
And  at  fancy  drilling  we're  plain  damned  fools, 
We  can  put  up  a  fine  performance  when  it  comes 

to  the  real  thing. 


IT 


THE  RAG-TIME  ARMY 

Considering  us  as  soldiers,  we're  only  an  empty 

bluff, 
We  look  like  a  bunch  of  dummies  when  we  get  on 

the  ''Slope  Arms"  stuff; 
Our  dressing  is  something  awful  —  our  ''  fours  " 

run  from  two  to  six. 
We  can't  even  change  direction  without  an  in- 
fernal mix. 
But  our  shooting  is  not  so  rotten  and  we  know 

what  a  bomb  is  for, 
They  say  we're  not  bad  with  the  bayonet,  though 

our  drill  is  so  awful  poor, 
And  Fritz  doesn't  love  the  Canucks,  and  I  think 

that's  the  safest  test ; 
We  drag  on  the  march  like  a  flock  of  sheep 
Our    discipline    makes    all    the    Brass    Hats 

weep, 
But  the  sloppy  old  Rag-time  Army  goes  "  over  the 

top  "  with  the  best. 

We're  Doctors,  and  Farmers,  and  Lawyers,  and 

Cowboys  and  City  Clerks, 
The  Office-Boy  is  a  Sergeant,  and  the  fellow  that 

owned  the  works 
Is  a  beautiful  big  buck  private,  who  jumps  at  the 

Sergeant's  word, 

12 


THE  RAG-TIME  ARMY 

And  the  boss  of  a  ranch  takes  orders  from  the 

fellow  that  tended  herd. 
We're  Bankers,  and  Brokers,  and  Butchers,  we're 

Confidence-men,  and  Cooks, 
We're  the  fellows  that  dig  the  ditches,  we're  the 

fellows  that  keep  the  books. 
We're  the  men  of  the  Pick  and  Shovel,  we're  the 

men  of  the  brush  and  pen ; 
From  the  shovel-stiff  to  the  ^Millionaire, 
If  you're  looking  for  them,  you'll  find  them 

here — 
In  the  ranks  of  the  Rag-time  Army  they  count, 

one  and  all,  as  men. 

We  heard  in  the  far,  faint  distance  the  sound  of 

a  world  at  war 
And  we  jumped  our  jobs  and  came  crowding  to 

the  call  of  the  cannon's  roar; 
From  city,  and  town,  and  homestead,  from  cabin, 

and  camp,  and  mine. 
From  the  wash  of  the  warm  Pacific  and  the  ice  of 

the  Arctic  line. 
And  battle  to  us  meant  nothing,  and  war  was  a 

thing  unknown. 
But,  somewhere,  deep  in  our  being,  far  deeper 

than  blood  or  bone, 

13 


THE  RAG-TIME  ARMY 

Spoke  the  voice  of  the  old  gray  Mother,  Who 
rules  from  Her  Island  Throne, 
"  In  a  world  of  war  will  my  sons  abide, 
"  In  peace,  or  fight  at  the  Mother's  side? 
"Answer,   Blood  of   the  Mother's  Blood,   and 
Bone  of  the  Mother's  Bone." 

Then  the  little  old  Rag-time  Army  rose  up  at  the 

Mother's  call. 
And  the  little  old  Rag-time  Army  has  learned 

how  to  fight,  and  fall, 
And  the  little  old  Rag-time  Army  is  doing  its  little 

bit. 
And  the  Huns  know  the  Rag-time  Army,  and 

they're  not  very  fond  of  it. 
There  are  little  white  crosses  marking  the  beds 

where  the  Canucks  lie  — 
(For  drilling  is  only  drilling  —  can  drill  teach  a 

man  to  die?) 
But,  when  we  come  to  the  finish,  to  the  close  of 

the  Hun's  great  "  Day  " 
When  we've  smashed  the  Hun  on  the  Western 

Line, 
When   our   shells   are   screaming   across   the 

Rhine, 
You'll  find  the  old  Rag-time  Army  at  work  in  its 

own  old  way. 

14 


THE  AEROPLANE 

There's  a  speck  afloat  in  the  distant  sky, 

It  wheels  and  whirls  like  a  hawk  a-wing, 

In  the  blue,  arched  vault,  where  the  bright  birds 

fly, 

And  'round  it,  forming  a  fairy  ring, 

The  white  puffs  blossom,  the  white  puffs  bloom 

Like  magic  flowers ;  then  fade  away. 

As  the  snow  that  falls  in  the  winter's  gloom 

Fades  in  the  sun  of  a  summer  day. 

There's  death  and  doom  in  that  soaring  speck 

Yes,  doom  and  death  are  a-floating  there, 

For  the  great  guns  swing  to  the  call  and  beck 

Of  the  men  who  traverse  the  upper  air, 

And  that  soaring  speck  is  the  great  gun's  eyes, 

(For    the    great    guns,    left    to  themselves,  are 

blind,) 
So  the  plane  that  scours  the  empty  skies 
Is  brain  and  eyes  of  the  guns  behind. 

The  white  puffs  blossom  and  bloom  and  grow, 
And  death  lies  hid  in  their  fleecy  hearts, 

15 


THE  AEROPLANE 

Wheeling,  whirling,  now  high,  now  low, 

With  the  wild  birds'  wiles  and  the  air-man's  arts, 

The  plane  'scapes  death  by  a  scanty  yard. 

For  the  lesser  guns,  they  are  out  to  blind, 

(And  they're  shooting  steady  and  strong  and 

hard) 
The  eyes  of  the  mightier  guns  behind. 

There's  a  man  aloft  in  the  soaring  plane, 
And  his  word  is  law  to  the  guns  below 
That  boom  and  batter  to  clear  the  lane  — 
The  lane  where  the  gleaming  bayonets  go. 
The  great  guns  swing  to  his  lightest  word. 
The  shells  scream  out  at  his  slightest  sign, 
And  death's  controlled  by  a  man-made  bird. 
And  a  bird-like  man,  o'er  the  German  line. 

Strong  steel  muscles  and  silken  wings, 
Screws  and  wires  and  wooden  rods, 
High-strung  engine  that  purrs  and  sings, 
And  men  a-wing  on  the  wind,  like  gods  — 
And  the  heart  of  all  is  the  heart  of  him 
Who  dares  the  deserts  of  air  alone, 
And  —  god-like  —  poised  on  the  ether's  rim, 
Guides  death's  grim  hand  from  his  lofty  throne. 


l6 


THE  LUCKY  DUG-OUT 

She  ain't  no  Carlton  or  Ritz  Hotel, 

She  ain't  no  Villa  de  Luxe, 

She's  damp  as  blazes,  an'  leaks  as  well, 

An'  you  don't  have  to  look  at  her  twice  to  tell 

That  her  roof  don't  amount  to  shucks. 

She  ain't  equipped  with  no  spacious  hall. 
She  don't  much  attract  the  eye  at  all. 
She's  seven  short  feet  by  five,  that's  all, 
(She'll  hold  three  men,  if  they're  fairly  small), 
An'  her  roof's  just  three  feet  high. 

She's  built  of  sandbags,  an'  sticks,  an'  clay, 
An'  galvanized  iron,  too. 
She's  semi-detached,  in  a  kind  of  way  — 
Fritz  dropped  a  Sausage  the  other  day 
An'  the  dug-out  next  door  —  na  poo. 

She's  low,  an'  leaky,  an'  far  from  clean, 
An'  muddy,  an'  wet  —  what's  more. 
It's  mighty  wise  to  keep  down  your  bean, 

17 


THE  LUCKY  DUG-OUT 

'Cause  it's  dimes  to  doughnuts  that  you'll  be  seen 
If  you  loiter  around  the  door. 

Her  bathroom's  a  tin  in  the  trench  outside, 
Her  kitchen's  a  can  of  coke, 
But  the  kitchen's  closed,  as,  last  time  we  tried. 
To  cook  a  lunch  in  the  bright  noontide. 
Old  Fritz  threw  things  at  the  smoke. 

The  people  living  across  the  way, 
Are  an  awful  unfriendly  lot  — 
They  like,  at  the  end  of  a  perfect  day, 
To  shove  some  shrapnel  across  the  bay, 
An'  make  it  unholy  hot. 

But,  rats  to  the  leaks  an'  mud  an'  the  rain. 

An'  bother  the  dirt  an'  the  wet  — 

Though   Fritz  may  shell  us  with  might  an' 

main, 
An' —  goldarn  his  eyes,  here  he  comes  again  — 
He  hasn't  quite  hit  us  yet. 

An'  let  her  leak  in  the  good  old  way  — 
It  don't  worry  us  a  bit  — 
Let  Fritz  keep  pounding  us  night  and  day. 
We're  cached  away  in  a  corner  bay. 
Where  we're  damnably  hard  to  hit. 
i8 


"  YELLOW '' 

'Twas  in  Folkestone  that  they  named  him,  in  a 

crowded  bar  one  night, 
When  a  fellow  called  him  something  that  would 

make  a  rabbit  fight, 
An'  he  took  that  red-raw  fightin'  word,  that  no 

man  ought  to  stand. 
Just  a-grinnin'  kind  of  foolish  —  and  he  never 

raised  a  hand. 

Then  they  re-baptized  him  "  Yellow,"  'cause  he'd 

showed  a  yellow  streak. 
Wider  than  the  Western  Ocean,  longer  than  a 

long,  wet  week ; 
It's  a  rotten  brand  to  carry,  but  he  didn't  seem 

to  care, 
So  the  name  stuck  hard  in  England,  while  we  did 

our  trainin'  there. 

An'  he  brought  it  out  here  with  him,  where  he 
lived  up  to  it  right  — 
^9, 


"  YELLOW  " 

Say,  Fd  never  thought  to  meet  a  guy  so  devil-rode 

with  fright  — 
He'd  duck  each  ramblin'  bullet  that  come  near 

enough  to  hear, 
An'  he'd  pass  the  low  spots  runnin',  like  a  crazy 

white-tailed-deer. 


When  he  heard  a  shell  a-comin',  why  he'd  almost 

throw  a  fit. 
An'  he'd  turn  'bout  two  shades  paler  every  time 

a  '  Sausage  '  lit ; 
Yep,  he  sure  was  some  rip-snorter  at  the  '  Death 

or  Glory '  game, 
'  Yellow  ' —  that  was  what  we  called  him,  an'  he 

lived  up  to  his  name. 

Well,  the  word  came  down  the  ditches  that  'twas 

time  for  Fritz  to  hike, 
An'  that  we  were  goin'   over  first  to  see  what 

things  were  like: 
Then  the  guns  they  got  a-goin'  an'  most  every 

kind  of  shell 
That  a   fellow  ever  dreamed  about  was  givin' 

Fritzy  hell. 


20 


"  YELLOW  " 

We  were  waitin'  in  the  trenches  for  the  guns  to 

clear  the  way 
An'  old  Yellow,  he  was  standin'  right  beside  me 

in  the  bay; 
You  could  tell,  just  lookin'  at  him,  that  his  nerves 

were  shot  to  scraps  — 
He  was  foolin'  with  his  rifle  —  he  kept  pickin' 

at  his  straps. 

With  his  fingers  kind  o'  twitchy,  an'  his  face  all 

soaked  with  sweat  — 
Judgin'  by  the  way  he  acted,  'twas  a  pretty  healthy 

bet, 
That  his  heart  was  sayin'  "  stick  it,"  while  his 

heels  yelled  "  run  away  " — 
It's  a  mighty  mean  sensation,  an'  /  knoiu  —  I've 

felt  that  way. 

Then  the  whistle  screamed  "  get  over,"  an'  the 

guns  all  seemed  to  stop. 
An'    next   minute    we    was    swarmin',    hell    for 

leather,  'cross  the  top ; 
It  was  sure  no  bloomin'  joy-ride,  tho'  the  guns  had 

done  their  best, 
(But,  then,  guns  are  only  engines,  it  takes  men 

to  do  the  rest.) 

21 


"  YELLOW  " 

They'd  made  hay  of  Fritz's  wire  an'  messed  up 

his  trench  a  lot, 
But  they  missed  a  few  machine  guns,  an'  they 

slipped  it  to  us  hot. 
Half  way  'cross,  old  Yellow  tumbled,  an'  he  lay 

there  like  a  log, 
An'  a  fellow,  runnin'  next  him,  yelled,  "  Get  up, 

you  yellow  dog. 

"  Call  yourself  a  blasted  Canuck,  an'  let  Heinie 

get  your  goat  — " 
Then  he  went  down,  chokin'  awful  with  a  bullet 

in  his  throat. 
But  old   Yellow  got  up   runnin' — p'raps   'twas 

what  that  fellow  said. 
Or  the  way  he  stopped  that  bullet,  started  Yellow 

seein'  red. 

Well,  we  left  a  lot  of  fellows  lyin'  quiet  in  the 

dirt  — 
For,    with   Fritz's    Maxims   workin',    someone's 

certain  to  get  hurt  — 
But  the  Lord  still  loves  the  Irish,  an'  I  hadn't  got 

a  scratch 
When  we  mixed  it  up  with  Fritzy  in  a  bomb  an' 

bayonet  match. 

22 


"  YELLOW  " 

We  cleaned  up  the  trenches  proper,  an'  we  set- 
tled down  to  stick, 

But  old  Fritz's  guns  got  goin'  an'  they  nearly 
turned  the  trick, 

With  a  big  barrage  behind  us,  so  our  second 
wave  got  stuck 

An'  it  seemed,  for  some  long  minutes,  we  were 
sadly  out  of  luck. 

'Cos    there    wasn't    many    of    us  —  just    small 

bunches  here  an'  there  — 
An'  the  heavy  Hun  trench-mortars  were  a-pound- 

in'  us  for  fair, 
Then  they  started  in  to  rush  us,  an'  things  sure 

were  lookin'  bad. 
But  we  stopped  'em,  good  an'  solid,  though  it 

took  'bout  all  we  had. 

'Twas  a  cinch  we'd  reached  the  finish  of  our 

merry  morning's  sport. 
With    our    ammunition    scanty   an'    our   bombs 

almighty  short; 
With   a   "thin,   red  line"    formation  that  was 

mostly  gaps  an'  holes  — 
The  time  seemed  right  for  startin'  in  to  doctor 

up  our  souls. 

23 


"  YELLOW '' 

Me  an'  Yellow  were  together  in  a  badly-battered 

bay, 
With  the  nearest  fellows  to  us,  maybe,  twenty 

yards  away; 
When   we   saw   the   gray-green   uniforms   come 

toilin'  up  once  more, 
I  can  just  remember  thinkin'  that  we'd  reached 

our  limit,  sure, 

When  a  chunk  of  shrapnel  got  me  on  the  head,  an' 

laid  me  out, 
'Fore  I  had  a  chance  to  figure  what  the  fuss  was 

all  about ; 
'T wasn't  very  many  minutes  till  I  came  to  life 

again, 
An'   I   saw  old  Yellow   scrappin',   like  a  dozen 

crazy  men. 

He'd  no  time  to  think  of  loadin',  an'  his  bayonet 

was  a  stub, 
But  the  butt  of  his  Lee-Enfield  made  a  mighty 

handy  club, 
I  saw  one  big  Hun  go  over  with  a  caved-in  skull, 

an'  then — 
The  world  went  'round  in  circles  an'  I  went  to 

sleep  again. 

24 


"  YELLOW  " 

That's  the  story,  as  I  saw  it  —  here's  the  rest,  it's 

second  hand  — 
Our  second  wave  got  over  just  as  Fritz  broke 

down  our  stand. 
Cleaned  up  three  Hues  with  the  bayonet  in  a  very 

decent  style, 
Then  our  other  waves  got  busy  and  drove  Fritz 

back  'most  a  mile. 

Well,  they  found  me  in  a  mud-hole  with  a  badly 

damaged  dome, 
(One  inch  lower  would  have  sent  me  to  my  happy 

Heavenly  home). 
An'  they  found  old  Yellow  lyin'  sprawled  out  on 

the  trenches'  rim, 
Grippin'  hard  a  broken  rifle,  with  a  dozen  holes 

in  him. 
Then  they  chucked  me  on  a  stretcher  an'  they 

sent  me  to  the  rear 
For  the  Red  Cross  men  to  play  with  —  but,  they 

buried  Yellow  there. 

This  is  just  a  simple  story  of  a  man  who  w^as 

my  friend, 
Who  was  nearly  mad  with  terror,  but  who  stuck 

it  to  the  end, 

25 


"  YELLOW  " 

Any  man  may  sport  a  medal,  if  he  has  a  Httle 

luck, 
But,  my  hat  is  off  to  Yellow,  who  was  sick,  an' 

scared, —  an'  stuck. 


26 


"  IT  SOUNDS  TO  ME '' 

'Way  West,  where  the  prairies  stretch  far  and 
free 

Till  they  fade  in  the  sun's  hot  blaze, 
Where  the  cowboys   follow  the  drifting  herds, 

Through  the  land  of  the  unmarked  ways ; 
Where  life's  lived  close  to  the  edge  of  things, 

And  living  is  less  complex 
Than  in  lands  controlled  by  the  reckless  hands 

Of  what's  known  as  the  weaker  sex; 
Where  chaps  and  Stetsons  are  evening  dress 

And  collars  and  ties  are  banned, 
Where  auction  bridge  is  a  game  unknown, 

And  there's  just  five  cards  in  a  hand; 
Where  wealth  is  reckoned  in  heads  of  stock, 

And  thousands  of  herds  range  free  — 
They've  got  an  expression  that's  mighty  good, 
We'd  use  it,  too,  if  we  understood 
What  they  mean  by  "  it  sounds  to  me." 

Suppose  you're  down  in  the  cattle  lands 
And  you  meet  with  a  guy  some  night, 
27 


"  IT  SOUNDS  TO  ME  " 

Who's  full  of  the  juice  of  the  joyous  grape  — 

Plumb  loaded  with  booze  and  fight. 
You  greet  him  first  in  a  friendly  way  — 

At  least,  if  you're  wise,  you  do  — 
Then,  suppose  he,  lifting  his  voice  in  song. 

Unburdens  his  soul  to  you  — 
"  I'm  an  old  gray  wolf  from  the  poison  plains, 

Where  the  coyotes  lurk  and  prowl, 
"  I'm  a  hootin',  shootin'  son  of  a  gun, 

And  this  is  my  night  to  howl." 
Don't  say,  "  Forget  it,  you  drunken  boob. 

You're  too  full  of  booze  to  see  " — 
That  might  mean  shootin'  and  sudden  death. 
Don't  get  to  talkin',  just  save  your  breath, 
And  murmur :     *'  It  sounds  to  me." 

Or,  our  leading  citizen.  Deacon  Jones, 

We'll  say,  owes  you  fifty  bucks, 
That  you  lent  him  once  on  his  empty  word  — 

And  his  word  don't  amount  to  shucks  — 
Well,  you've  tried  your  best  to  collect  that  bill, 

But  the  Deacon  he  won't  kick  through, 
Then,  s'pose  you  run  into  a  pal  some  night. 

Who  discourses  like  this  to  you  — 
''  As  a  model  of  virtue  and  honest  worth. 

Old  Jones  is  the  real  thing, 
28 


''  IT  SOUNDS  TO  ME  '* 

"  His  word's  his  bond,  he's  as  true  as  steel 

And  as  straight  as  a  yard  of  string." 
Your  pal  may  think  he's  as  right  as  rain, 

No  matter  how  wrong  he  be, 
Don't  tell  the  tale  of  your  fifty  bucks. 
But  just  look  weary,  and  murmur:     "Shucks" 
"  P'raps  so  —  but  —  it  sounds  to  me." 

Out  here  where  we  copy  the  boring  worm, 

And  live  like  the  festive  mole, 
Where  our  streets  are  trenches  knee-deep  in  mud 

And  home  is  a  sandbagged  hole; 
Sometimes  —  not  often  —  you'll  meet  a  guy. 

Whose  vision  is  tinged  with  blue, 
And  he'll  say  — "  The  Huns  made  a  drive  at  X 

And  they've  pretty  near  broken  through ; 
"  We've  lost  ten  guns  and  a  lot  of  men  — 

God  knows  where  the  thing  will  end. 
"  For  the  Huns  are  getting  the  upper  hand." 

Just  tell  him :     "  My  cheerful  friend, 
"  I  love  the  sight  of  your  beaming  face, 

And  your  bright  sunny  smile,  but, —  gee !  — 
"  Go  somewhere  else  with  your  sad,  sweet  song, 
*'  You  may  be  right,  but  I  think  you're  wrong, 
"  And,  straight  now  — '  it  sounds  to  me.'  " 


29 


"  IT  SOUNDS  TO  ME  " 

When  the  German  press  gets  a-going  good 

And,  dreaming  an  inky  dream, 
Brags  big  of  the  cowardly  British  fleet 

That,  according  to  them,  'twould  seem, 
Daren't  show  a  nose  in  the  open  seas, 

But  sulks  in  its  guarded  holes, 
While  the  German  ships  sweep  the  seven  seas, 

And  cruise  to  the  farthest  poles, 
In  search  of  a  foe  that  they  fail  to  find, — 

Just  figure  it  out  this  way : 
Fritz  says  his  navy  is  after  ours. 

And  hunting  it  night  and  day, 
But  a  German  ship  is  a  d d  rare  bird 

In  the  wash  of  the  old  North  Sea; 
Though  German  journalists  rant  and  rave 
Of  a  German  fleet  on  the  rolling  wave. 

It  sounds  —  well,  "  it  sounds  to  me." 

When  Fritz  starts  trying  to  get  our  goats, 
By  bragging  of  "  Kultur's  Might," 

Of     "hammer     blows"     and     of     "breaking 
through  " 
And  the  "  Triumphs  of  German  Right," 

Why,  let  him  rave  and  amuse  himself, 
And  it  doesn't  hurt  us  a  bit. 


30 


"  IT  SOUNDS  TO  ME  " 

For  we've  got  a  kind  of  "  Kultur,"  too, 

Though  we  don't  make  a  brag  of  it  — 
And  it  doesn't  stand  for  a  conquered  world 

'Neath  the  heel  of  a  German's  rule, 
And  it  doesn't  stand  for  a  world  imbued, 

With  the  doctrines  of  Kultur's  school. 
But  a  world  unshadowed  by  dread  of  war, 

For  a  world  that  is  safe  and  free. 
So,  Fritz,  old  boy,  you  may  rave  and  rant, 
And  brag  and  bluster  —  but  win,  you  can't, 
So,  really  — "  it  sounds  to  me." 


31 


ODE  TO  MACCONACHIE 

My  weary  spirit,  like  a  storm-swept  pine, 

Is  bowed  beneath  the  weight  of  trouble's  load, 

Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  pitying  star  doth  shine. 

To  ease  the  darkness  of  my  cheerless  road. 

To  all  the  woes  that  harass  and  appall, 

That  crush  my  heart  and  fill  my  soul  with  pain, 

Is  added  one,  more  deep  and  dark  than  all  — 

We've  got  MacConachies  for  lunch  again. 

Here,  where  we've  made  our  home,  the  rain  falls 

cold, 
The  mud  is  unbelievably  deep. 
The  "  Whiz-Bang  "  whizzes,  as  in  days  of  old. 
The   crumping   "  Crump "    disturbs   our   easeful 

sleep, 
All  these  be  minor  ills  —  we've  learned  to  laugh 
At  screaming  shells,  and  cold,  and  driving  rain. 
But  none  among  us  can  forbear  to  strafe, 
When  we  must  eat  MacConachies  again. 


32 


ODE  TO  MACCONACHIE 

Friend  Fritz's  "  Heavies  "  fill  the  air  with  noise, 
And  breach  the  parapet  that  was  our  pride, 
"  Rum  Jars  "  and  "  Sausages,"  and  kindred  toys, 
Fall  thick  around  the  dug-outs  where  we  hide, 
The  snipers  snipe  ferociously  and  free. 
The  Maxims  spray  us  with  their  iron  rain  — 
We  could  stick  these  things  with  a  grin,  maybe. 
But  —  we  must  eat  MacConachies  again. 

Accursed  can  of  thrice  accursed  food : 

Oh,  ''  ]\I.  &  V."  when  shall  we  have  release. 

From   thy   meat,    murphys,    beans   and   carrots, 

stewed 
And  buried  deep  in  hecatombs  of  grease? 
Some  men  there  are,  'tis  said,  who,  wath  their 

teeth. 
Dig  deep  their  graves  —  I  fear  'twill  be  my  doom 
To  have  inscribed  upon  my  funeral  wreath, 
'*  With  his  can-opener  he  built  his  tomb." 

Oh,  ye ;  whose  caps  are  splashed  with  red  and  gold, 

To  whom  the  art  of  war  is  A.B.C., 

Let  not  our  cry  of  anguish  leave  you  cold. 

But  lend  attentive  ear  unto  our  plea. 

We'll  gladly  bear  war's  horrors  —  Number  Nines, 


ODE  TO  MACCONACHIE 

Physical  jerks,  fatigues,  and  first  F.  P., 

"  Whiz-Bangs  "  and  "  Sausages,"  grenades  and 

mines, 
If  only  you  will  strafe  MacConachie. 


34 


BILL 

Bill,  the  Bomber,  is  down  in  the  mud. 

Shot  to  pieces  and  bleeding  fast, 
He  played  his  cards  in  the  game  of  games, 

But  he's  come  to  the  end  of  his  stack  at  last; 
He  bet  on  his  cards  for  all  they  were  worth, 

Now  his  last  check's  up  on  a  losing  hand. 
And  he's  cashing  in  at  the  game's  grim  end, 

In  the  shell-swept  reaches  of  No-Man's-Land. 

Bill  came  down  from  the  frozen  North, 

From  the  lonely  land  where  the  corpse-lights 
glow, 
Spurred  and  stung  by  the  tales  of  war 

That  filtered  in  from  the  land  below; 
Tales  of  torture  and  filthy  lust, 

Tales  of  horror  and  deeds  of  shame, 
Till  he  left  his  claim  and  his  trapping  line 

To  take  a  hand  in  the  greatest  game. 

His  mukluks  and  parka  are  cached  away, 
And  they've  dressed  him  up  in  a  khaki  suit, 
35 


BILL 

They've  taught  him  to  see  with  a  soldier's  eye, 
They've  taught  him  to  drill,  and  to  march,  and 
shoot ; 

He,  who  had  shot  that  he  might  not  starve. 
He,  who  had  run  with  the  dogs  all  day. 

Learned  to  shoot  as  a  soldier  shoots, 
Learned  to  march  in  a  soldier's  way. 

They  took  him  over  across  the  sea, 

And  set  him  down  in  a  ravished  land, 
Where  the  trenches  twine  through  the  war-tilled 
fields. 

And  the  Hun  is  held  in  an  iron  band; 
Doing  his  bit  with  his  heart  held  high. 

Taking  his  chances  as  they  came  round, 
And  now  he's  lying  between  the  lines. 

And  his  blood  drops  red  on  the  reeking  ground ; 
He  prays  for  the  greatest  gift  of  the  gods, 

The  touch  of  death  that  will  end  his  pain, 
Then  sleep  steals  down  on  his  weary  eyes, 

And  his  soul  is  back  in  the  North  again. 

He  feels  the  fang  of  the  frost  in  his  flesh 

As  it  stabs  through  the  parka's  fold, 
And  the   scorch   of   the   storm- whirl   sears  his 
cheek. 


BILL 

With  the  touch  of  its  biting  cold; 
He  hears  the  crunch  of  the  wind-packed  snow 

As  it  grinds  'neath  the  snow-shoes'  tail, 
And  he  knows  he  is  back  in  the  North  again, 

At  the  start  of  another  trail. 

Back  to  the  land  where  he'd  fought,  and  failed. 

And  risen  to  fight  again, 
Fought  and  fallen,  but  battled  on, 

In  the  strength  of  his  sweat  and  pain; 
Broken  and  beaten,  but  undismayed. 

Fighting  the  fight  to  the  last, 
One  lone  man  'gainst  the  lone  wolf-land, 

Braving  the  biting  blast. 

Daring  the  devils  that  ride  the  storm, 

The  fiends  that  reive  in  the  snow. 
Going  gay  to  the  jaws  of  death, 

As  only  the  brave  may  go, 
Hurling  a  taunt  in  the  wolf -land's  eyes, 

Laughing  in  death's  dark  face, 
A  lonely  atom  that  takes  its  stand 

In  the  midst  of  infinite  space. 

Back  in  the  grey  old  North  again. 
With  the  flat  snow  stretching  wide, 
37 


BILL 

Back  in  the  land  of  the  stunted  pines, 
Where  the  wolf  and  the  Husky  bide, 

Back  where  the  Frost  King's  grip  is  strong, 
And  the  winds,  his  courtiers,  race. 

Back  where  men  rattle  the  dice  with  fate 
And  gamble  for  gold  or  a  grave. 

Then  the  flame  of  the  past  leaped  through  his 
blood, 

Like  the  flame  of  a  sacred  fire. 
And  the  wail  of  the  wind  was  a  welcome  hpme. 

To  the  land  of  his  heart's  desire, 
The  Huskies  howled  in  the  driving  storm 

And  the  howl  of  the  wolves  replied, 
From  the  shadowed  thickets  of  stunted  pine 

That  blackened  the  mountain  side. 

Then  mush,  you  sore-footed  brutes,  mush  on, — 

The  tugging  malamutes  strain  the  trace. 
And  the  whip's  sharp  snap  is  the  crack  of  doom 

As  it  rings  and  echoes  through  silent  space; 
The  coarse  snow  shrieks  'neath  the  speeding  sled, 

And  heading  into  the  rising  gale. 
Strong  in  the  strength  of  his  heart  and  hands. 

He's  mushing  off  on  his  last  long  trail. 


38 


BILL 

Bill,  the  Bomber  came  back  to  the  trench, 

A  mud-stained  tunic  over  his  face, 
By  the  light  of  the  first  faint  flush  of  dawn 

They  dug  him  a  shallow  resting-place; 
They  looked  at  the  wounds  where  his  life  leaked 
out, 

And   their   oaths   held  more  than   a  hint  of 
prayer, 
For  they  knew  that  he'd  suffered  the  pains  of  hell, 

Waiting  for  death  in  the  darkness  there. 

Then  they  bared  his  face  for  a  last  good-bye, 

Ere  they  laid  him  down  on  his  couch  of  clay, 
And  he  seemed  to  sleep,  as  a  man  may  sleep 

At  the  end  of  a  long  and  weary  day; 
Never  a  mark  on  his  face  to  tell 

Of  the  age-long  hours  of  a  night  of  pain, 
But  the  smile  of  a  man,  who,  the  long  trail  past, 

Is  come  to  the  home  of  his  heart  again. 


39 


YPRES 

Grim  and  grey  'neath  the  brooding  stars 

Thy  shell-torn  ruins  lie, 
And  the  fire-scarred   stubs  of  thy  once  proud 
towers 

Strain  to  the  pitying  sky, 
Like  twisted  and  tortured  hands  that  reach 

To  the  foot  of  the  throne  on  high, 

And  plead  for  a  vengeance  swift  and  sure 
On  the  foe  who  has  done  thee  wrong, 

Who  gave  a  peaceful  town  to  the  sword. 
Claiming  the  right  of  the  strong  — 

A  little  patience,  oh,  tortured  town. 
For  vengeance  is  thine  ere  long. 

Already  the  armies  that  stand  for  the  right 

Are  hard  on  the  heels  of  the  Hun, 
And  the  dark  of  defeat  draws  near  to  them 

Who  sought  a  place  in  the  sun, 
And  the  nation  that  drank  to  ''  The  Day,"  with 
cheers. 
Will  mourn  ere  the  day  be  done. 
40 


YPRES 

Battered  and  burnt  are  the  pleasant  homes 

That  stood  by  thy  eastern  gate, 
Ruined  and  ravished  the  lordly  Hall 

Where  thy  merchants  have  sat  in  state, 
Great  is  thy  sorrow,  and  great  thy  loss. 

But  thy  honour  is  still  more  great. 

Though  thy  glory  be  dim  with  the  dust  of  death 

And  thy  beauty  in  ruin  falls. 
Honoured  art  thou  above  all  the  towns 

In  the  dead  that  died  by  thy  walls, 
And  thy  honour's  stars  are  the  graves  that  lie, 

In  the  shade  of  thy  shattered  halls. 

Gay  and  gallant  they  fought  their  fight 

And  lightly  they  laid  them  down, 
On  the  blood-stained  banks  of  thy  old  canal 

And  the  steel-swept  streets  of  the  town, 
Flooding  the  earth  with  their  hero's  blood 

And  thy  name  with  their  fair  renown. 

So,  hail  to  thee !  city  of  shroudless  ghosts, 

And  hail  to  the  noble  dead, 
Who  laid  them  down  in  their  last  long  sleep, 

With  thy  stony  streets  for  a  bed, 
And  gave  their  lives  that  the  world  might  live, 

When  thy  old  canal  ran  red. 
41 


YPRES 

Strong  in  sorrow  and  proud  in  death, 
Thou  shalt  stand  through  the  long,  long  years, 

A  monument  to  a  whole  world's  woe, 
To  a  nation's  blood  and  her  tears, 

To  the  men  that  looked  death  fair  in  the  face, 
Untroubled  by  craven  fears. 

And  thy  ravished  ruins  shall  be  a  sign 

Till  the  set  of  the  last  red  sun, 
A  warning  grim,  as  thy  fate  was  grim, 

That  men  may  read  as  they  run, 
"  Heed  ye  the  fate  of  the  little  lands 

That  trust  in  the  word  of  the  Hun." 


43 


RESPONSIBILITY 

There  was  a  man  in  Birmingham  who  couldn't 
go  and  fight, 

His  heart  was  pretty  shaky  and  his  lungs  were 
far  from  right, 

Too  weak  to  make  a  soldier  —  this  is  how  the 
story  runs  — 

He  got  a  job  a-making  ammunition  for  the  guns. 

And  shut  up  in  a  factory,  ten  hours  a  day  or  more, 

He  made  the  little  cartridges  that  fit  the  rifle-bore, 

Although  he  worked  to  beat  the  Dutch  his  con- 
science wasn't  right, 

And  he  worried  like  blue  blazes  'cause  he  couldn't 
go  and  fight. 

There  was  an  army-service  man,  who  dished  out 

clothes  and  shoes, 
MacConachies    and    bully-beef,    and   bread   and 

cheese  and  booze ; 
He  got  a  special  army  form  demanding  bread 

and  beans 
And  half  a  million  other  things,  for  some  bunch 

near  Messines. 

43 


RESPONSIBILITY 

It  was  an  extra  special  case  so,  with  no  time  to 

waste, 
He  turned  a  bunch  of  wagons  out  and  loaded  up 

in  haste; 
And,  somehow,  working  at  high  speed  and  rushed 

to  beat  the  band. 
Put  on  an  extra  jar  of  rum  that  wasn't  "  on 

demand." 

There  was  a  Sergeant-Major,  and  a  cheerful  soul 

was  he, 
He  saw  that  extra  jar  of  rum  and  chortled  in  his 

glee; 
Says  he,  ''  I  guess  the  boys  are  cold,  a-standin' 

in  the  rain, 
A  double  dose  will  warm  'em  up  and  set  'em  right 

again." 
Then  he  rambled  down  the  trenches,  through  mud 

and  dark  and  wet. 
And  handed  out  a  man-sized  jolt  to  every  man 

he  met, — 
Although  we  sometimes  bawl  at  him  and  often 

cuss  him  some. 
We  love   the    Sergeant-Ma j or   when   he   dishes 

out  the  rum. 


44 


RESPONSIBILITY 

There  was  a  private  down  the  trench,  a-doing  of 

his  guard, 
All  wet  and  cold  and  mis'rable  and  up  against  it 

hard, 
The  world  seemed  full  of  grief  and  gloom,  with 

ne'er  a  guiding  star, 
When  the  Sergeant-Major  hove  in  sight  a-carry- 

ing  his  jar. 
His  soul  was   full  of  perfect  peace,  the  whole 

world  was  his  friend, 
As  half  a  pint  of   Army   rum   went   scorching 

round  the  bend ; 
So,  joying  in  the  welcome  heat  of  the  internal 

glow. 
He  cared  not  for  the  rain  above  or  for  the  mud 

below. 

Beneath  the  soothing  influence  was  born  a  pious 

thought, 
From  out  the  misty  memories  of  things  that  he'd 

been  taught, 
"  Cast  your  bread  upon  the  waters,"  that  is  what 

the  Scripture  tells, 
"  I  guess  I'll  let  'em  have  ten  rounds,  on  general 

principELS." 


45 


RESPONSIBILITY 

So,  working  his  Lee-Enfield,  just  as  fast  as  she 

could  bark, 
He  sent  his  ten  rounds  rapid  out  into  the  silent 

dark, 
And,  though  he  didn't  know  it  then,  and  didn't 

give  a  damn, 
The    cartridges    he    rattled    off    were   made    in 

Birmingham. 

There  was  a  German  General  doped  out  a  lovely 

scheme. 
Considered   as  pure   strategy   it   was   a  perfect 

dream  ; 
He  had  an  awful  bunch  of  men  all  ready  for  the 

scrap 
And  figured  that  he'd  wipe  the  British  Army  off 

the  map. 
With  his  Staff  all  gathered  'round  him,  in  his 

camp  behind  the  line. 
He  laid  his  scheme  before  them  and  it  sounded 

mighty  fine. 
But  just  before  he  reached  the  point  on  which 

the  whole  thing  hung, 
A-sailing  handsome,  high  and  wide,  a  random 

bullet  sung. 


46 


RESPONSIBILITY 

The  gold-laced  Staff  stood  round  and  gaped,  in 

horror  and  surprise, 
The  General  curled  up  on  the  floor,  a  hole  between 

his  eyes; 
The  golden  dream  of  conquest  had  been  shattered 

with  a  slam, 
By  a  rambling,  stray,  old  bullet  that  was  made 

in  Birmingham. 
And  through  that  hole  between  his  eyes  their 

highest  hopes  had  fled, 
The  scheme  was  locked  up  in  his  brain  —  what 

use,  when  he  was  dead? 
His  great  plan  may  have  been  a  peach,  or  may 

have  been  a  quince. 
But  they  didn't  break  the  line  that  night,  and 

haven't  done  it  since. 

This  is  a  simple  little  tale,  but  tell  me,  friend  o' 

mine, 
Who  was  it  wiped  that  General  out,  and,  maybe, 

saved  the  line  ? 
Was  it  the  Private,  half-way  soused,  who  let  his 

ten  rounds  hum. 
Or,  perhaps,  the  Sergeant-Major,  who  had  given 

him  the  rum? 


47 


RESPONSIBILITY 

Was  it  the  Army-Service  man,  who  didn't  count 

things  right, 
Or  that  poor  guy  in  Birmingham,  who  couldn't  go 

and  fight? 
Such  questions  aren't  much  in  my  Hne,  so  I've 

no  answer  pat, 
I'll  let  you  work  it  out  yourself  and  "  let  it  go 

at  that." 


43 


NO  MAN'S  LAND 

In  the  sunny  South  and  the  naked  North 
The  old  wise  East  and  the  younger  West, 
Poets  have  Hved  and  songs  sent  forth 
Lauding  the  land  that  they  held  the  best. 
Dante  has  written  of  Heaven  and  Hell, 
Of  souls  in  torment  and  angel  band, 
What  of  the   land  where  no  man  may  dwell? 
Who  writes  the  ballad  of  No  Man's  Land? 

Grim  and  gaunt  in  the  morning's  grey 

Barren  and  bare  in  the  noon-day's  light, 

Livid  and  lone  when  the  star-shells  play, 

A  deadly  desert  through  day  and  night. 

'Neath  the  Maxim's  hail  and  the  shrapnel's  sweep 

Who  may  cross  it  and  hope  to  stand  ? 

And,  who  is  there  who  holds  life  so  cheap 

As  the  men  who  wander  in  No  Man's  Land? 

Narrow  kingdom  of  dread  and  fear 
Where  Death  Omnipotent  holds  his  sway, 
From  the  Northern  Sea  to  the  South  frontier 

49 


NO  MAN'S  LAND 

Lie  heaps  of  clothing  and  mouldering  clay. 
All  that  is  left  of  the  men  who  died 
In  the  dark  alone,  that  the  men  who  stand 
On  guard,  in  the  trenches  that  wander  wide, 
May  rule  the  Kingdom  of  No  Man's  Land. 

Many  a  man  goes  gay  to  death 

In  the  rush  and  riot  of  charging  men, 

When  high  hearts  leap  to  the  deep-drawn  breath, 

Who  cares  for  bullet  or  bayonet  then? 

But  the  man  must  be  made  in  a  hero's  mould 

Who  dares  to  wander  with  life  in  hand, 

Where  the  shadow  of  Death's  dark  wings  enfold 

The  fatal  field  that  is  No  Man's  Land. 

Many  a  gallant  life  has  fled, 
To  the  bursting  bomb  and  the  bayonet's  thrust, 
And  the  grey  rats  feast  on  the  year-old  dead, 
In  the  slimy  mud  and  the  poisoned  dust. 
In  death  and  decay  they  lie  supine. 
Where  never  a  tree  or  a  house  may  stand. 
Who  would  win  the  day  on  the  Western  line,     • 
Must  pay  the  price  out  in  No  Man's  Land. 

Sing  of  your  heroes  of  golden  lands. 
Men  of  Carthage  and  Greece  and  Rome, 
150 


NO  MAN'S  LAND 

Of  Nelson  and  Drake  and  their  hero  bands 
Sailor  Sons  of  our  Island  Home. 
Who  ruled  the  earth  and  who  dared  the  deep, 
With  hero  heart  and  unfaltering  hand, 
Have  they  more  honor  than  those  who  sleep 
The  last  long  sleep  out  in  No  Man's  Land? 

l'envoi 

Who  is  the  man  with  the  poet's  soul. 
The  soldier's  eye  and  the  craftsman's  hand, 
Who  will  worthily  carve  on  Fame's  fair  scroll 
The  deathless  epic  of  No  Man's  Land? 


OVER  THE  WALL 

The  shells  are  screaming  over  our  heads, 

And  the  guns  are  roaring  to  beat  the  band, 
They're  having  a  merry  hell  of  a  time 

On  the  other  border  of  No  Man's  Land ; 
But  through  the  rush  and  the  roar  and  the  reek 

A  message  drops  on  the  waiting  ear, 
And  the  shrieking  shrapnel  and  roaring  guns 

Brings  tidings  of  comfort  and  hearty  cheer. 
"  Look  to  your  bayonet  and  see  to  your  bombs, 

Be  sure  that  your  rifle  is  working  right, 
We've  lain  in  the  mud  for  a  long,  long  while, 

But  we're  going  over  the  wall  to-night." 

The  parapet's  smashed  to  a  shapeless  mass. 
And  the  wire  is  hanging  in  tattered  strings. 

The  guns  have  the  range  to  a  split  frogs  hair, 
And  they  sure  are  making  a  mess  of  things. 

The  sandbags  soar  like  the  mounting  lark. 

And  the  armoured  dug-outs  are  pounded  flat, 
52 


OVER  THE  WALL 

That  shattered  wood  was  a  gun-base  once, 
But  the  nine  point  twos  put  an  end  to  that. 

Just  let  the  artillery  clear  the  way, 

You  can  bet  your  boots  that  they'll  do  it  right, 

There'll  be  mighty  little  to  hold  us  up, 
When  we  go  over  the  wall  to-night. 

Eighteen  pounder  and  nine  point  two ; 

Fifteen  inch  and  seventy-five, 
Paving  the  path  where  the  bayonets  go, 

Blazing  the  trail  for  another  drive. 
The  shrapnel  drips  like  a  driving  rain, 

The  H.  E.'s  batter  at  every  bay, 
And  Fritz  is  down  in  his  dug-outs  deep. 

Thirty  feet  in  the  stubborn  clay. 
Dig  your  deepest  and  burrow  your  best. 

We'll  dig  you  out  with  the  bayonet  bright. 
You'll  find  six  fathoms  is  none  too  deep. 

When  we  go  over  the  wall  to-night. 

The  Sergeant-Major's  round  with  the  rum  — 
The  bombers  are  loosening  up  their  pins, 

The  Captain's  got  his  eye  on  his  watch. 
Two  minutes  more  and  the  show  begins. 

Brace  your  feet  on  the  firing  step, 

Ready  to  jump  when  the  whistles  blow, 
53 


OVER  THE  WALL 

Think  of  the  weary  months  in  the  mud, 

Of  the  boys  *'  gone  West "  that  we  used  to 
know. 

We've  quite  a  score  to  settle  with  Fritz, 

But  we'll  pay  up  our  debts  in  full,  and  write 

"  Paid  "  at  the  foot  of  the  long  account. 
When  we  go  over  the  wall  to-night. 

The  Captain's  whistle's  between  his  teeth 

And  the  guns  lift  on  to  the  second  line; 
The  whistle  shrieks  and  away  we  go, 

'Cross  the  narrow  strip  where  the  bullets  whine. 
Splashing  thro'  cess-pools  of  stinking  slime. 

Stumbling  through  mud  that  is  foul  and  deep, 
Over  that  shell-pocked  No  Man's  Land, 

As  wolves  swoop  down  on  the  cowering  sheep. 
The  shrapnel's  tearing  gaps  in  the  ranks, 

Lines  wither  away  in  the  Maxim's  blast, 
But  who  cares  a  curse  for  his  life  to-night? 

We're  over  the  wall  and  away  at  last. 

Through  the  wire  and  down  the  trench. 
Stab  and  batter  and  shoot  and  thrust, 

Bomb  and  bayonet  and  rifle  clubbed. 
Berserk  mad  with  the  battle  lust. 

There's  a  few  more  acres  of  France  set  free, 

54 


OVER  THE  WALL 

At  the  point  of  the  bayonet  we've  pushed  the 
line 
A  few  yards  further  along  the  way  — 

The  long  red  road  to  the  rolling  Rhine. 
We've  given  the  Kaiser  another  push, 

To  help  him  along  to  his  final  fall, 
And  freedom  and  peace  drew  a  step  more  near. 

When  the  boys  were  up  and  over  the  wall. 


55 


MUD 

Arms  and  the  mud  I  sing, —  the  mud  we  find 
To  right  and  left,  before  us  and  behind. 
Inside  our  boots,  our  clothes,  our  eyes,  our  ears, 
In  everything  we  own  of  every  kind. 

WeVe  getting  used  to  Fritz's  little  game. 

We  don't  find  things  as  bad  as  when  we  came, 

The  shelling  doesn't  bother  us  so  much, 

But  mud  is  everlastingly  the  same. 

The  parapet  we  build  so  tall  and  straight. 
What  time  the  engineers  stood  by  in  state 
And  told  us  just  exactly  what  to  do. 
Must  be  rebuilt  to-morrow, —  ain't  it  great  ? 

No  shells  have  ever  landed  on  it  yet. 

Nor  did  a  "  sausage  "  cause  this  blamed  upset, 

It  just  lay  down  under  the  pressure  of 

The  blasted  mud,  a-swelling  in  the  wet. 

56 


MUD 

We  load  it  into  bags  whereof  we  make 
A  place  to  sleep,  but  find,  when  we  awake, 
The  dug-out  that  we  toiled  on  has  become 
A  muddy  island  in  a  muddier  lake. 

They  tell  us  we  must  stick  it  when  the  Hun 
Comes  swarming  through  the  wire  —  easy  done, 
If  you're  bogged  down  in  Flanders  to  your  waist 
You've  got  to  stick  it  —  you're  too  deep  to  run. 

Of  gallant  charges  poets  used  to  sing. 
Of  dashes  into  death  while  bugles  ring, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  bayonets  gleaming  bright, 
But  charging  through  the  mud's  a  different  thing. 

Of  course,  we  sometimes  go  to  see  the  Hun, 
But  then  we  slide  and  slither  —  never  run. 
How  can  you  run  with  mud  above  your  knees? 
The  glory  of  the  charge  is  overdone. 

It's  spread  upon  the  biscuit  that  we  eat. 

The  same   old   mud   that   squelches   'neath   our 

feet, 
It  thickens  up  our  soup,  sweetens  our  tea, 
And  in  our  stew  it  mingles  with  the  meat. 


57 


MUD 

It  has  a  few  good  points  when  all  is  said, 
It  makes  a  soft,  though  somewhat  slimy,  bed, 
And,  covered  with  a  bag  or  two,  it  makes 
A  downy  pillow  for  a  weary  head. 

Oh,  Mud !  Mud !  Mud !     Must  raiment,  food  and 

bed 
Be  full  of  thee?     Sleeping  and  clothed  and  fed 
Must  you  be  always  with  us  and,  at  last. 
Must  we  be  buried  in  you  when  we're  dead  ? 

Remember  Belgium !     Shall  we  soon  forget 

The  land  that  stays  so  beautifully  wet? 

They  told  us  'twould  dry  up  when  spring  came 

round, 
Tis  August,  and  the  mud  is  with  us  yet. 

But  still  'tis  not  much  use  to  raise  a  fuss, 
And  when  we  feel  inclined  to  rave  or  cuss, 
We  find  some  consolation  in  the  thought 
That  Fritz  is  getting  it  as  bad  as  us. 


5S 


MATHEMATICS 

There  was  a  time  when  I  beheved  that  maps 
Were  harmless  products   of   the   draughtsmen's 

art, 
And  figured,  Hke  a  lot  of  other  chaps, 
That  maps  and  wars  were  many  miles  apart. 
I've  learnt  to  trail  a  contour  to  its  lair 
And  how  to  tell  a  valley  from  a  hill, 
To  scale  the  measured  miles  from  here  to  there, 
To  trace  the  windings  of  a  pictured  rill ; 
I've  learnt  the  signs  for  everything,  from  wells 

to  railway  stations, 
I've  even  learnt  to  calculate  magnetic  variations. 

Now  there's  a  pin-prick  on  a  German  map, 
(A  mark  upon  a  map  I've  never  seen) 
Made  by  some  goggle-eyed  professor  chap, 
All  togged  up  in  a  suit  of  greyish-green, 
Who's  skipper  of  a  bag  of  tricks  that  looks 
Like  a  machine-shop,  but  is  just  a  gun 
Manned  by  a  lot  of  guys  that  study  books 
And  gather  round  and  have  a  lot  of  fun, 

59 


MATHEMATICS 

With  gears  and  shafts  and  steering  wheels  and 

other  mechanisms, 
Professors  of  a  dozen  sorts  and  half  a  hundred 


Of  course,  they're  quite  a  piece  away  from  me, 
(A  range  of  hills  and  lots  of  air  between) 
Fve  never  seen,  nor  ever  hope  to  see, 
Those  scientific  chaps  in  greyish-green. 
But,  still,  Fve  got  a  hunch  that  there's  a  prick 
Upon  their  map  that  shows  just  where  I  lie, 
And  some  day  they'll  cut  loose  and  turn  the  trick 
And  we'll  go  soaring,  piecemeal,  to  the  sky. 
Knowing  they've  marked  upon  their  map  exactly 

your  location. 
Doesn't    encourage    quiet    thought    or   peaceful 

meditation. 

A  scientific  gent  that  soars  on  wings 
Among  the  fleecy  clouds  that  float  on  high, 
With  telescope  and  other  useful  things, 
Locates  us  as  he  rambles  through  the  sky ; 
He  telephones  down  to  another  Hun, 
Letters  and  figures  in  a  formless  group. 
Which  the  receiver  notes,  and  when  he's  done 
They've  got  us  very  nicely  in  the  soup. 
60 


MATHEMATICS 

That  tangled  bunch  of  figures  is  the  sign  of  our 

undoing, 
They  plot  them  nicely  on  their  map  and  calmly 

leave  us  stewing, — 

Until  the  skipper  of  that  bag  of  tricks 

Says  to  his  junior,  standing  next  in  line  — 

"  Those  fellows  at  O.K.  4-9-3-6  — 

"  I've  got  their  angles  figured  pretty  fine, 

"  Suppose  we  let  them  have  a  round  or  so." 

They  get  their  little  toy  all  loaded  up 

With  dopes,  whose  names  I  never  hope  to  know, 

Packed  in  an  envelope  designed  by  Krupp, 

And  having  set  their  wheels  and  things  with  care 

and  circumspection, 
They  loose  a  ton   of  concentrated  hell  in  our 

direction. 

Then,  if  their  calculations  have  been  true 
And  accurately  drawn  their  curves  and  lines, 
If  no  one's  dropped  a  decimal  or  two. 
In  calculating  tangents,  squares  and  sines ; 
Why,  then,  the  steel-cased  lump  of  sudden  death 
Will  follow  up  the  line  laid  down  for  it. 
Nor  vary  by  a  single  whisker's  breadth, 
Until  it  hits  where  it's  supposed  to  hit; 
61 


MATHEMATICS 

That    is    where    Fritz's    pin-prick    shows    our 

situation, 
And  we're  wiped  out  by  trigonometry,  to  Fritz's 

keen  elation. 

Give  us  again  the  good  old  days  now  dead, 
When  hand  to  hand  you  faced  the  other  dub 
And  bounced  a  granite  boulder  off  his  head, 
Or  re-arranged  his  features  with  a  club. 
Those  were  the  good  old  days.     Just  now,  alas ! 
A  Hun  professor  in  a  grey-green  dress 
(Who  taught  before  the  war  an  infant  class) 
Can  drop  Krupp's  greetings  right  at  your  address. 
From  all  this  mess  of  useless  words  stands  forth 

one  truth  terrific, 
They've  spoiled  this  war  by  making  it  so  blasted 

scientific. 


62 


REFLECTIONS  OF  A  TOMMY 

They  say  there's  dignity  and  peace  in  death. 
There  may  be,  sometimes,  mostly  though,  there's 

not. 
We  see  so  many  fellows  draw  their  breath 
For  the  last  time,  in  this  confounded  spot, 
\Yt  don't  pay  much  attention  to  it  now, 
Or  moralize  about  Death's  healing  hand 
Laid  softly  on  the  sufferer's  fevered  brow 
To  ease  his  pain.     'Tis  hard  to  understand. 

You  know  Old  Bill?     We  laid  Old  Bill  away 
A  little  while  ago.     I  dug  his  hole  — 
(It  sure  was  dirty  digging  —  sticky  clay) 
And  tried  to  say  a  prayer  for  Old  Bill's  soul. 
And  then  it  struck  me  —  all  the  poets  gush 
About  the  peaceful  sleep  of  death,  and  tell 
Of  the  calm,  happy  smiles,  and  such  like  slush, 
Of  men  who  die  for  freedom,  but,  O!  Hell! 
Just  take  a  look  at  Bill ;  does  his  face  show 
The  hand  of  peace  —  mark  of  a  soul  set  free  ? 
Or,  don't  you  think  that  anyone  would  know, 
Just  looking  at  him,  what  he  used  to  be  ? 

63 


REFLECTIONS  OF  A  TOMMY 

I  took  the  blanket  off  his   face  to  see 
If  Death  had  clothed  him  in  a  robe  of  grace; 
No,  there  he  lay,  just  as  he  used  to  be, 
The  same  unlovely,  weakling,  shiftless  face.- 
(A  little  froth  of  blood  upon  his  lips. 
And  eyes,  half  glazed,  and  staring  straight  ahead, 
Dull  with  the  dulness  of  his  life's  echpse.) 
What  sign  of  peace  lies  in  those  eyes  so  dead, 
Or  rest,  or  honour,  on  that  mouth  so  weak  ? 
His  eyes  give  him  away,  his  cold  lips  tell, 
Plainly  as  if  in  death  they  still  could  speak, 
Just  what  he  was  —  a  man  that  failed  and  fell. 
The  kind  that  keeps  our  prisons  always  filled. 
That  lengthens  out  our  bread-line  every  year  — 
A  weakling,  wastrel;  hope  and  honour  killed 
Not  much  nobility  in  Bill,  I  fear. 

But,  then  on  second  thought,  there's  something 

there  — 
Hardly  the  stamp  of  noble  death,  but  still 
A  look  that  Bill,  in  life,  could  never  wear. 
Now  he's  gone  West  it's  possible  that  Bill 
Knows  things  that  he  could  never  hope  to  know. 
And  sees  more  clearly  now  than  we  can  see. 
Of  course,  that's  just  a  hunch  —  it  may  be  so, 
Or  it  may  not,  and  yet,  it  seems  to  me 

64 


REFLECTIONS  OF  A  TOMMY 

There's  something  in  Bill's   face  that  seems  to 

say  — 
*'  You  called  me  jail-bird,  crook  and  other  things, 
*'  You  thought  I  was  a  slum-rat  yesterday, 
"  And  you  a  plaster  saint  with  snowy  wings, 
"  Because  you  had  the  chance  I  never  had. 
"  But  now  I  know,  and  some  day  you'll  know, 

too, 
"  That  no  man  is  all  good,  and  none  all  bad ; 
"  Now  lying  here,  I'm  just  as  good  as  you. 
"  I  gave  my  life  —  'twas  all  I  had  to  give  — " 
(A  man  has  just  one  life,  whoe'er  he  be) 
"  That  men  at  home  might  sleep  in  peace,  and 

live; 
"  Is  one  of  them  a  better  man  than  me?  " 

I  may  be  wrong;  perhaps  it's  just  a  whim 
Of  light  and  shadow  makes  him  look  that  way, 
But,  it  sure  struck  me,  when  I  looked  at  him. 
That  if  Bill  had  a  message,  'twas  to  say, 
Something  like  this :  "  A  rogue  dead  in  this  fight 
''  Does  more  for  right  than  any  saint  that  stays 

away 
"  And  skulks  at  home."     I  think  that  Bill  is  right. 


65 


MUSIC 

I  was  fooling  around  in  a  muddy  trench,  doing 
a  guard  one  night, 

'Twas  black  as  the  boots  of  the  Earl  of  Hell  — 
the  wind  was  a  holy  fright ; 

The  cold  was  the  kind  that  just  sapped  your  bones, 
the  rain  was  a  solid  sheet, 

And  I  hugged  the  lee  of  a  traverse  there,  hunt- 
ing a  little  heat. 

Someone,  a  little  way  down  the  ditch,  was  playing 

a  violin 
And  the  notes  came  down  on  the  biting  wind, 

eerie  and  weird  and  thin, 
Then,  huddled  up  in  the  cold  and  rain,  as  limp 

as  an  empty  sack. 
My  soul  got  away  from  a  world  of  war,  and  my 

mind  went  a-beating  back, 

Over  the  long,  long  trail  of  Time,  to  a  night  so 
long  ago, 

66 


MUSIC 

When,  snug  and  warm  in  a  log-built  shack,  we 
basked  in  the  birch  logs'  glow; 

When  Jacques  Du  Bois,  on  his  violin,  played  the 
chansons  of  ancient  France, 

And  Bill  La  Belle,  on  the  split-log  floor,  danced 
us  the  Beggar's  Dance, 

That  he'd  learned  in  the  days  when  he  traded 
North,  many  a  year  ago. 

And  the  storm  wind  howled  round  the  moss- 
chinked  logs,  and  the  claws  of  the  driven 
snow 

Tore  at  the  windows  and  shook  the  roof  and 
rattled  the  close-barred  door, 

And  we  cheered  old  Bill  till  the  shingles  shook, 
and  shouted  and  yelled  for  more. 

Then  we  dragged  Big  Russian  Mike  from  his 

bunk,  a-cussin'  to  beat  the  band, 
To  show  how  the  fur-capped  Cossacks  danced  on 

the  steppes  of  his  native  land. 
Thirty  below  in  the  storm  outside,  but  cosy  and 

warm  within. 
And  the  storm  fiends  howling  a  chorus  deep  to 

Du  Bois's  old  violin. 


67 


MUSIC 

He  stopped.  I  guess  for  a  little  while  he  was  fig- 
uring what  he'd  play, 

And,  as  he  groped  in  his  brain's  back  room  to 
dig  up  another  lay, 

He  kept  on  drawing  out  broken  chords,  without 
any  settled  scheme. 

Wild  as  the  wail  of  a  lone,  lost  soul  —  and  then 
in  a  kind  of  dream 

I  saw  the  camp  of  the  Sitka  Crees,  on  the  edge  of 

the  Barren  Lands, 
In  the  year  when  the  salmon  came  not  at  all 

and  the  errant  and  drifting  bands 
Of  caribou   (they  must  hunt  or  starve)   swung 

east  of  their  well-trod  trail, 
So    the    hunters    crawled    empty-handed    home, 

and  famine,  a  spectre  pale. 

Stalked,  grim  and  gaunt,  through  the  famished 

camp  and  struck  with  a  heavy  hand. 
Till  women  and  weaklings  failed  like  flies  and  the 

strongest,  who  still  could  stand. 
Scratched  with  their  knives  in  the  frost-gripped 

ground,  piling  up  cairns  of  stones, 
O'er  the  dead  they  laid  in  their  shallow  graves  to 

cheat  the  wolves  of  the  bones. 
6^ 


MUSIC 

And  the  broken  chords,  on  the  biting  wind,  were 

the  wails  of  the  women  when 
They  mourn  for  those  who  have  hit  the  trail  to 

the  Hills  of  the  Mighty  Men. 
Then  he  started  into  a  tune  that  told  of  women, 

and  song,  and  wine, 
And  I  visioned  Tony  the  Wop's  old  dump,  up 

back  of  the  Forty-Nine, 

When  old  Sawn-soo  and  Dan  McKay  and  Little 

Pete  Dawe  and  me, 
Came  mushing  down  from  Muskaga  Creek  on  a 

hell  of  a  jamboree. 
Money  to  burn  in  our  pokes  that  night,  and  never 

a  care  at  all, 
And  we  cut  things  loose  to  a  queen's  sweet  taste 

in  Tony  the  Wop's  old  hall. 

Hooch  a-plenty  and  dances  free,  and  all  the  games 

thrown  wide, 
'Til  Dan  ran  foul  of  a  tin-horn  sport,  who'd  just 

got  in  from  outside ; 
A  couple  of  words  and  their  guns  were  out  —  you 

know  the  way  these  things  start  — 
And  Dan  lay  sprawled  on  the  dance-house  floor, 

a  bullet  plumb  thro'  his  heart. 

69 


MUSIC 

He  kept  on  playing  'bout  all  he  knew  —  music  of 
every  kind  — 

And  every  tune  brought  a  picture  clear  of  some- 
thing I'd  left  behind  — 

Something  I'd  known  in  the  good  old  days,  in 
the  lands  that  are  wild  and  free, 

(Lonely  and  hungry  and  naked  lands,  but  they 
sure  look  like  home  to  me) 

And  when  my  relief  got  around  at  last,  I  lay  in 

my  muddy  bed 
And  dreamed  of  forests  of  gloomy  pine,  of  snows 

that  are  drear  and  dead. 
Of  camp-fires  dotting  the  night  like  stars,  of  stars 

that  are  bright  like  fire, 
Of  mountains  rising  to  meet  the  stars,  higher 

and  ever  higher; 

Of  the  old  lost  trails  and  the  old  lost  life,  of  the 

lands  that  I  used  to  know. 
Mountain  and  forest  and  frozen  stream,  tundra 

and  swamp  and  snow. 
I  don't  know  whether  that  guy  could  play,  'cos 

violin  stuff,  you  see. 
Is  one  of  the  thirteen  million  things  that  don't 

mean  a  thing  to  me, 
70 


MUSIC 

But  it  seems  to  me,  many  years  ago,  that  I  heard 
quite  a  lengthy  speil, 

By  some  wise  old  guy,  that  Music's  good  if  only  it 
makes  you  feel. 

If  Music  is  good  when  it  makes  you  feel  that 
fellow's  was  good  all  right, 

For  the  sounds  that  he  sawed  from  his  creak- 
ing strings  made  me  homesick  as  hell  that 
night. 


71 


THE  WANDERING  MEN 

There's  a  breed  of  men  —  a  wandering  breed  — ; 
they're  drifting  everywhere, 

Nobody  knows  just  who  they  are,  or  whence  they 
came,  or  why, 

A  breed  who'll  tackle  any  game,  and  always  play 
it  square. 

Who'll  drink  or  fight,  or  maybe  kill,  but  seldom 
cheat  or  lie. 

Unless  it  be  to  help  a  pal  —  they're  far  from  be- 
ing saints. 

They  live  their  lives  to  suit  themselves,  fearless 
and  free  and  fast, 

Unchecked  by  any  church's  code,  by  any  law's  re- 
straints, 

They  seek  what  joy  there  is  in  life,  as  long  as  life 
may  last. 

You  used  to  meet  them  everywhere,  where  life 

ran  swift  and  strong, 
Where  the  wild  land  makes  its  final  stand,  ere 

yet  it's  beaten  back, 
72 


THE  WANDERING  MEN 

Where  the  city  crowds  the  desert,  where  the  trails 
are  lone  and  long, 

The  wandering  men  whose  feet  are  free  and  scorn 
the  trodden  track. 

The  lone  trails  know  their  feet  no  more  —  no 
more  their  camp-fires  glow, 

Like  fire-flies  in  the  velvet  dark,  or  hail  the  com- 
ing day, 

Their  feet  are  now  on  harder  trails,  the  trails 
that  soldiers  know. 

And  many  sleep  their  last  long  sleep,  'neath 
France's  sodden  clay. 

They  were  men  whose  lives  would  not  conform 

to  standards  churchmen  set, 
They  fell  for  cards,  for  rattling  dice,  for  women 

fair  and  frail, 
They   dearly   loved  to   gaze   upon   the   whiskey 

when  'twas  wet. 
And  their  feet  slipped  far  and  frequent  from  the 

straight  and  narrow  trail. 
They  often  got  too  hot  to  hold  and  sadly  out  of 

hand, 
They  loved  to  cut  things  loose,  to  fight  and  frolic 

now  and  then : 


73 


THE  WANDERING  MEN 

They'd  be  'way  out  of  the  picture  in  a  white-robed 
angel  band, 

But  they  stacked  up  good  and  proper  in  our  com- 
mon world  of  men. 

There  are  some  whose  souls  went  soaring  to  the 

high  explosive's  crash, 
There  are  some  whose  lives  leaked  redly  through 

the  hole  the  bayonet  made, 
Bursting  bomb  and  whining  bullet  and  the  shrap- 
nel's sear  and  smash, 
Sent  some  to  answer  roll-call  at  the  Great  O.  C.'s 

Parade. 
Though  their  lives  were  far  from  saintly,  yet  they 

died  as  brave  men  die, 
Without  regret  for  days  gone  by  or  fear  for  days 

in  store. 
They  went  to  death  as  to  a  feast,  with  heart  and 

head  held  high. 
They  played  the  game  for  all  'twas  worth  and 

v/hat  can  man  do  more? 

All  through  the  war-reaped  fields  of  France,  their 

unmarked  graves  abound. 
They  sleep  the  deep  and  dreamless  sleep  of  men 

whose  toil  is  past, 

74 


THE  WANDERING  MEN 

Till  the  trumpeter  of  Heaven  on  the  trump  of 

doom  shall  sound 
The  call  to  that  court-martial  that  all  men  must 

face  at  last. 
Shall  they   fear  that  great   court-martial,   who 

knew  not  the  name  of  fear? 
Shall  they  merit  deep  damnation  for  their  lives 

lived  fast  and  free? 
Shall  not  life,  laid  down  for  freedom,  pay  for 

every  wasted  year, 
And  their  long  account  be  cancelled,  by  the  lives 

they  gave  in  fee? 

So  when  the  Provost-Marshal  lays  their  crime- 
sheet  on  the  board, 

(The  long,  long  list  of  lusty  years,  when  life  was 
swift  and  strong, 

With  many  a  duty  left  undone  and  many  a  law 
ignored) 

And  the  wandering  men  of  little  worth  stand 
forth  a  goodly  throng. 

With  their  clothes  all  torn  in  battle  and  their 
scars  of  honour  red. 

Shall  they  be  judged  by  churchmen's  laws  or  by 
the  laws  that  stand  above 


75 


THE  WANDERING  MEN 

The  little  laws  that  churchmen  make  —  the  laws 

of  Him  who  said, 
"  Who  gives  his  life  that  man  may  live,  no  man 

has  greater  love." 


76 


PAY  DAY 

There  was  Rod  O'Shea,  and  Micky  Walsh,  and 

Tillicum  McGhee, 
And    Big   Bill    Black,    and    Shorty   Jones,    and 

Jimmy  Noyes,  and  me  — 
We  drew  our  pay  and  started  out  upon  a  little 

spree. 

We  didn't  buy  no  motor  cars,  or  yachts,  or  dia- 
mond rings, 

(When  you're  a-soldiering  out  here  you  don't  re- 
quire such  things) 

But  with  our  fifteen  francs  apiece  we  felt  as  rich 
as  kings. 

Our  real  needs  were  only  two  —  I  don't  know 

which  was  worst  — 
Our  longing  for  some  real  grub  or  our  unholy 

thirst ; 
Estaminets  weren't  open,  so  we  killed  our  hunger 

first. 

77 


PAY  DAY 

We  had  a  reg'lar  soldier's  spread  —  a  bunch  of 

hen-fruit  fried, 
Some  chipped-up  Murphies  cooked  in  grease,  with 

coffee  on  the  side. 
Some  stuff  that  they  call  custard  here,  and  we 

were  satisfied. 

And  then  we  hunted  up  a  place  where  they  sell 

liquid  stuff. 
You  can't  get  any  "  hooch  "  out  here,  which  sure 

is  mighty  tough  — 
And  so  we  had  to  make  beer  do,  and  beer  was 

quite  enough. 

It  was  an  old  estaminet,  two  miles  behind  the  hne, 
Where  they  sell  stout  and  "  Beer  Anglais  "  and 

vinegar  called  wine; 
We  mopped  up  quite  a  lot  of  each  and  got  to 

feelin'  fine. 

There  was  soldiers  there  of  every  kind  the  world 

has  ever  seen. 
Artillery,    and   horse,    and    foot  —  yes,    even    a 

marine. 
And  then  we  got  to  tellin'  tales  —  you  know  the 

kind  I  mean. 

78 


PAY  DAY 

O'Shea  he  told  of  crocodiles,  and  ninety-nine  foot 

snakes, 
While  Jimmy  Noyes  was  lyin'  'bout  the  dams  the 

beaver  makes, 
And  how  he  uses  his  flat  tail  to  hammer  down 

his  stakes. 

There  was  a  flame-topped  Irishman  (his  pals  all 

called  him  Pat) 
Says  he  — "  I've  seen  a  beaver  and  it's  just  a 

swelled-up  rat, 
With  a  tail  that's  far  too  big  for  him  and  pounded 

kind  of  flat." 

We  wear  a  Beaver  on  our  caps  upon  a  maple  leaf, 
So  we  couldn't  stand  such  statements  from  a  red- 
haired  cattle-thief: 
We  looked  at  one  another,  more  in  anger  than 
in  grief. 

'Twas  Big  Bill  took  the  challenge  up  and  rose 

up  in  his  might, 
He  landed  on  the  red-haired  mut  —  and  landed 

on  him  right, 
And  that  was  the  commencement  of  a  very  pretty 

fight. 

79 


PAY  DAY 

There,  where  the  dove  of  peace  had  perched,  the 
air  was  stiff  with  strife, 

Formalities  were  cast  aside  and  war  was  to  the 
knife; 

I've  never  struck  a  sweeter  scrap  in  all  my  mis- 
spent life. 

It  was  a  peach  —  I  saw  Big  Bill  backed  up  against 

the  door, 
Doing  Horatius  at  the  Bridge,  and,  tangled  on 

the  floor, 
A  ball  of  concentrated  strife  with  Jimmy  for  the 

core. 

Fists,  bottles,  jugs  and  table-legs  were  mussing 

up  the  air. 
And  missiles,  mixed  with  wicked  words,   were 

flying  here  and  there, 
And  —  someone  laid  out  Micky  with  the  ruins  of 

a  chair. 

Big  Bill  was  next  to  bite  the  dust,  he  got  it  good 

and  hard, 
(An  upper-cut  that  jarred  his  spine  and  lifted 

him  a  yard), 
Bill  always  was  a  careless  cuss  about  his  bloomin' 

guard. 

8q 


PAY  DAY 

Right   then    things    happened    with    such   speed 

they're  hard  to  tell  about  — 
Someone  got  jugglin'  with  a  jug  that  had  been 

full  of  stout, 
And    Jimmy    Noyes    was    in    the    way  —  they 

counted  Jimmy  out. 

Some  careless  person,  fooling  with  a  bottle,  let 

it  fly, 
It  landed  with  a  sickly  thud  upon  my  dexter  eye. 
And  I  went  peacefully  to  sleep  and  let  the  world 

slip  by. 

I  can't  say  just  what  happened  next  —  I  wasn't 

in  the  game, 
But,  from  the  tales  I've  heard,  I  judge  that  things 

were  far  from  tame, 
And  everyone  enjoyed  himself  until  the  piquet 

came. 

Now  Rod  O'Shea,  and  Micky  Walsh,  and  Tilli- 

cum  McGhee, 
And    Big   Bill    Black,    and    Shorty    Jones,    and 

Jimmy  Noyes,  and  me, 
Are  doing  twenty-eight   long  days   on  number 

one  F.  P. 

8i 


PAY  DAY 

They've  moved  our  leave  back  just  six  months, 

that  means  that  v^e'll  get  none, 
Until  old  Fritz  is  flattened  out  and  this  darned 

war  is  done, 
But  —  though  we're  paying  for  it  now  —  we  sure 

had  lots  of  fun. 


82 


DAWN  — APRIL  9th,  1917 

Not  yet  Dawn  —  and  the  gray  mists  lie 

Thick  on  the  Ridge  ahead. 
Here  and  there,  Hke  a  Hghtning  flash, 

Blazons  a  burst  of  red 
Through  the  dark  that  lies  on  a  storm-swept 

world  —  heavy  and  cold  as  lead. 

Not  yet  dawn  —  and  the  storm-whirls  sweep 

Over  a  world  a-strain  — 
The  men  of  the  Youngest  Nation  wait  — 

Out  in  the  dark  and  rain, 
Ready  to  die  that  a  world  may  live  — 

Reckoning  death  as  gain. 

There,  in  the  black  of  the  storm-swept  dark, 

Men  of  the  Western  Lands 
Strain  their  eyes  where  a  darker  shape 

Shows  where  the  grim  Ridge  stands  — 
Kultur's  stronghold  for  two  long  years  — 

Boast  of  the  Kaiser's  bands. 

83 


DAWN  — APRIL  9th,  191 7 

Gunners  stand  in  their  deep-dug  pits, 
Hard  by  their  high-piled  shells  — 

Guns  all  trained  on  the  Ridge's  slope  — 
There  where  the  Hun  horde  dwells  — 

Waiting  to  loose  on  the  German  line 
Flames  of  a  hundred  hells. 

Seconds  dragging  with  leaden  feet  — 

Minutes  as  long  as  days  — 
Faint  gray  streaks  in  the  eastern  sky, 

Piercing  the  heavy  haze  — 
When,  oh,  when,  will  the  minute  strike? 

When  will  the  great  guns  blaze? 

When,  oh,  when,  will  the  minute  strike? 

Dawn's  creeping  up  so  fast  — 
When  —  in  the  crash  of  a  riven  world 

Waiting  is  done  at  last  — 
Gone  are  the  doubts,  and  the  hopes,  and  fears, 

Now  that  the  vigil's  past. 

Guns  a-bark  like  the  hounds  of  hell! 

Guns  that  but  now  were  dumb, 
Bellow  deep  in  their  iron  throats 

Now  that  their  hour  has  come, 
And  their  song  to  some  is  a  hymn  of  joy  — 

Music  of  death  to  some. 
84 


DAWN  — APRIL  9tli,   1917 

Through  the  dusk  and  the  driving  sleet, 
Out  through  the  steel-shod  rain. 

Go  the  men  of  the  Western  Lands, 
Fearing  not  death  nor  pain  — 

Going  gaily  and  caring  not 

Who  shall  come  back  again. 


Where  are  the  Huns  who  would  hold  the  Ridge, 

Boasting  their  iron  might, 
Where  are  the  Legions  of  Kultur  now, 

Faced  by  the  Hosts  of  Right? 
Dead,  or  captured,  or  —  hero  Huns !  —  ' 

Scattered  in  craven  flight. 

A  new  flag  floats  in  a  freer  air. 

High  on  the  Ridge's  crown  — 
A  new  flag  floats  o'er  the  shattered  square, 

There  in  the  shell-torn  town  — 
The  Flag  of  Freedom's  unfurled  again  — 

The  Eagle  of  Kultur' s  down. 


Safe  they  sleep  on  that  barren  slope  — 
They  who  went  forth  and  died, 

85 


DAWN  — APRIL  9th,  1917 

To  plant  the  Flag  of  the  Maple  Leaf 

High  up  on  the  Ridge's  side  — 
And  their  graves  shall  be,  while  the  world  en- 
dures. 

The  shrine  of  a  people's  pride. 


86 


SHELL-SHOCK 

I'm  scared,  by  God  1     I'm  good  and  scared  —  my 

nerves  are  all  gone  smash  — 
I'm  scareder  than  I  ever  was  before  — 
An'  I'm  crouchin'  here  a-shakin',  an'  a-waitin'  for 

the  crash 
That  a  coal-box  makes  a-knockin'  at  the  door. 

All  my  nerves  are  shot  to  pieces  an'  I'm  soakin'  in 

my  sweat, 
An'  my  teeth  are  rattlin'  like  a  box  of  dice, 
All  my  joints  are  hangin'  loose,  an'  I'm  jumpy 

as  the  deuce, 
An'  my  feet,  they  feel  like  fair-sized  chunks  of 

ice. 

It  feels  a  most  unholy  time  since  first  I  came  out 

here, 
(The  days  are  lengthy  on  the  Western  front), 
It  feels  about  a  century  —  it's  really  just  a  year, — 
Since  I  started  on  the  "  Death  or  Glory  "  stunt. 

I've  seen  mighty  little  Glory  an'  an  awful  lot  of 
Death, 

87 


SHELL-SHOCK 

But  I  stuck  it  out,  though  often  feelin'  queer  — 
Now,  I'm  crouchin'  in  a  hole,  with  a  chill  around 

my  soul, 
An'  I'm  pretty  nearly  fit  to  faint  with  fear. 

Fve  took  my  chances  with  the  rest,  there's  nothin' 
much  in  that, — 

A  risk  or  two  is  neither  here  nor  there,— 

I've  snuggled  close  to  Mother  Earth  and  laid  un- 
holy flat 

When  old  Fritz's  guns  were  pounding  us  for  fair. 

I've  gone  across  to  visit  Fritz  and  thought  it  lots 

of  sport 
To  mix  it  good  and  proper  with  the  Hun, 
Now  my  nerves  are  shot  to  strings,  an'  I'm  almost 

seein'  things. 
An'  I'd  give  my  soul  if  I  could  cut  and  run. 

I  never  thought  I'd  get  like  this  —  I  thought  that 

I  could  stick, 
But  they  gave  us  hell  in  sections  all  the  day, 
An'  they've  got  me  now  —  Gott  strafe   'em  — 

'twas  the  Heavies  did  the  trick, 
(Hear  'em  hammer,  hammer,  hammer  in'  away). 


88 


SHELL-SHOCK 

They've  polished  off  our  parapet,  they've  slaugh- 
tered all  my  pals, 

An'  they've  left  me  here,  too  sick  to  even  curse. 

No,  I  haven't  lost  no  blood,  but  I'm  lyin  in  the 
mud 

With  my  guts  all  gone  —  an'  that's  a  d d 

sight  worse. 

I  wouldn't  mind  it  half   so  much  if   I'd  been 

wounded  right, 
But  it's  hell  to  have  to  quit  the  game  like  this, 
Scared  an'   shaken  up,  an'  jumpy  —  scared  of 

everything  in  sight. 
Almost  faintin'  when  I  hear  a  bullet  hiss. 

I'll  be  goin'  back  to  Blighty  soon  with  "  Shell- 

Shock  "  on  my  sheet, 
An'  the  boys  will  think  my  feet  got  cold,  maybe, 
But  old  Dante  could  write  swell  'bout  the  agonies 

of  hell 
If  he'd  got  a  dose  of  shell-shock,  same  as  me. 


89 


THE  ONE  WAY  TRAIL 

It's  before  us  in  the  noonday,  with  the  sunlight 

gleaming, —  gleaming, — 
We  can  see  it  in  the  corpse-light  of  the  green 

and  ghastly  flare, — 
In  the  lonely  midnight  watches,  when  the  world 

lies  still  and  dreaming, 
We   can   watch   it   winding,    winding,    winding, 

winding,  God  knows  where. 
In  the  crash  of  war  appalling  we  can  hear  it  call- 
ing, calling, 
And  it  lures  us  — "  Come  and  follow,"  in  the  song 

the  bullet  sings, 
But  our  feet  can  never  follow  till  the  shades  of 

death  are  falling 
On  the  One  Way  Trail  a-leading  out  unto  the 

End  of  Things  — 
The  long,  long  trail  a-leading  out  unto  the  End 

of  Things. 

Never  glint  of  sun  upon  it,  nor  the  moonlight  soft 
and  mellow, 

9Q 


THE  ONE  WAY  TRAIL 

Nor  the  silver  sheen  of  starhght  shines  upon  the 
One  Way  Trail, 

But  the  grimmer  lights  of  battle,  bloody  red  and 
leprous  yellow, 

And  the  ghastly  green  of  star-shells  with  their 
pallid  light  and  pale. 

And  the  red  and  wrathful  flashes,  where  the  blaz- 
ing batt'ry  smashes; 

The  burning  towns,  like  blots  of  blood,  upon  the 
midnight  sky; 

The  rifle  fire  that  stabs  the  dark,  the  thirsty  bayo- 
net flashing, 

Are  sun  and  moon  and  stars  to  light  the  trail  we 
travel  by  — 

And  there's  light  enough  to  guide  us  on  the  trail 
we  travel  by. 

Never  song  of  birds  upon  it,  nor  the  evening 

breezes  sighing, 
Nor  the  laughter  of  the  waters  splashing  down 

in  silver  spray, 
Breaks  the  silence  of  that  pathway :  but  the  last 

cries  of  the  dying 
Telling  of  a  body  broken  and  a  spirit  sped  away : 
Mighty  guns  a-roar  like  thunder;  crash  of  earth 

that's  torn  asunder; 

91 


THE  ONE  WAY  TRAIL 

Rifles  cracking  sharp  and  sudden,  and  the  rasp 

of  hard-drawn  breath: 
These  are  music  meet  to  cheer  us  on  the  Road  of 

Woe  and  Wonder, 
On  the  One  Way  Trail  we  follow,  that  men  call 

the  road  of  Death  — 
And  there's  merry,  merry  music  on  the  One  Way 

Trail  of  Death. 

Though  the  way  seem  dark  and  dreary,  there's 

brave  company  to  cheer  us  — 
They  who   followed,   gay   and   gallant,   till  the 

Trail's  end  came  in  sight  — 
With  our  feet  upon  the  pathway  we  can  feel  them 

marching  near  us  — 
All  the  men  who  fought  and  suffered  in  the  cause 

of  Truth  and  Right; 
Men,  who,   through  the  march  of  age  —  kings 

and  warriors,  priests  and  sages  — 
Dared  to  lay  their  lives  down  lightly  that  earth's 

freedom  might  not  fail. 
Whose  undying  names  enlighten  History's  best 

and  brightest  pages  — 
March  beside  us  through  the  shadows  as  we  tread 

the  One  Way  Trail  — 


92 


THE  ONE  WAY  TRAIL 

And  there's  gay  and  gallant  company  upon  the 
One  Way  Trail. 

Though  the  Trail's  end  may  be  hidden,  and  the 
shadows  hang  before  it, 

Though  we  see  it  only  darkly,  dim  and  vague,  as 
in  a  glass. 

Still  we're  hoping,  when  we  reach  it,  that  the  sen- 
try posted  o'er  it 

Will  believe  we  did  our  little  best  and  give  us 
leave  to  pass; 

Take  our  bodies,  bent  and  broken,  and  our  death- 
wounds  as  a  token 

That  we  fell,  but  did  not  falter  —  that  we  died, 
but  did  not  fail. 

And  from  out  the  last  great  silence  we  may  hear 
the  message  spoken  — 

**  There's  a  welcome  at  the  journey's  end  for 
those  who  tread  the  trail  — 

*'  And  there's  rest  and  peace  a-plenty  at  the  end- 
ing of  the  trail." 


93 


A  HUNDRED  YEARS 

You  may  come  through  this  rather  risky  game  — 

(Some  fellows  do,  somehow)  — 

Unsmashed,  unscarred,  and  generally  the  same, 

In  wind  and  limb,  as  now. 

You  may  have  all  the  luck,  and  get  away 

Without  a  scratch  where  fellows  every  day 

Are  changed  from  living  men  to  clammy  clay  — 

But,  what's  the  odds  a  hundred  years  from  now  ? 

You  may —  (some  fellows  do  it)  — lose  a  leg; 

Maybe  an  arm,  or  two; 

Crawl  through  life's  journey  with  a  wooden  peg, 

A  wing  you  never  grew. 

For,  over  here,  where  shrapnel's  on  the  wing, 

Where  Crumps  go  crumping  and  gay  bullets  sing, 

An  accident's  a  mighty  common  thing  — 

A  hundred  years  will  mend  it  all  for  you. 

You  may,  perhaps  —  (chaps  do  it  every  day)  — 
Acquire  an  R.  I.  P. 

94 


A  HUNDRED  YEARS 

And,  in  your  little  bed  down  in  the  clay, 

Be  beautifully  free 

From  all  your  cares  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears, 

And,  though  the  folks  at  home  may  scatter  tears. 

What  will  it  matter  in  a  hundred  years?   — 

Who's  going  to  care  a  hang  for  you  or  me  ? 

In  five  score  years  men  will  your  life  and  death. 

Even  your  name,  forget : 

Forget  for  them  you  gave  your  latest  breath. 

Forget  their  heavy  debt. 

Don't  let  that  worry  you,  but  drag  along, 

Finish  your  little  job  of  righting  wrong 

And,  though  you  be  forgotten  like  this  song, 

Your  work  will  stand  still  till  the  last  sun  has  set. 


95 


LUCK 

Bill  Jones,  who  easily  forgot  the  little  that  he 

knew, 
Holds  down  a  mighty  cushy  job,  draws  down  a 

darned  good  screw. 
And  wears  red  patches  on  his  coat,  'way  back  at 

G.  H.  Q. 

While  Smith,  who  studied  twenty  years  to  learn 

how  wars  are  run, 
Who  knows  the  works  of  every  shell  and  every 

kind  of  gun, 
Will  be  a  simple  subaltern  until  the  war  is  done. 

This  doesn't  prove  a  single  thing,  but,  after  many 
days 

Of  thinking  hard,  one  gleam  of  fact  shines  thro' 
my  mental  haze. 

And  this  is  it  — "  the  Army  moves  in  most  mys- 
terious ways." 

You  may  have  old  Napoleon  beat  and  still  stay  in 

the  ruck  — 
You  may  acquire  an  R.  I.  P.,  no  matter  how  you 

duck  — 
But  D.  S.  O.  or  R.  I.  P.  depends  a  lot  on  luck. 


97 


LUCK 

One  guy  went  out  and  did  a  stunt  and  gathered  a 

V.  c, 

Another  did  about  the  same  —  and  copped  an 

R.  I.  P., 
The  way  that  things  are  divied  up  looks  hke  a 

joke  to  me. 

One  chap  I  knew  played  "  safety  first  "  and  never 

took  a  chance  — 
He'd  rather  an  unpunctured  hide  than  glory  or 

romance  — 
And  now  he's  pushing  daisies  up,  somewhere  in 

sunny  France. 

Another  chap  —  a  careless  cuss  —  took  chances 

as  they  camic, 
He  looked  upon  the  blessed  war  as  nothing  but  a 

game  — 
He  should  be  dead  a  dozen  times  —  he  isn't,  just 

the  same. 

96 


THE  HINDENBURG  LINE 

Oh,  where,  oh,  where,  is  the  Hindenburg  line  - 
Is  it  here,  or  there,  or  across  the  Rhine  ? 
We  search,  but  we  never  find  it ; 
The  line  that  took  three  long  years  to  make; 
The  line  no  troops  in  the  world  can  take; 
The  steel  and  concrete  no  shells  can  shake, 
And  the  millions  of  guns  behind  it, — 

Deep,  shell-proof  dugouts  of  steel  and  brick, 

Strong  concrete  parapets  ten  feet  thick. 

Barbed  wire  beyond  all  telling; 

Where  Hans  and  Fritz  and  the  other  folk 

In  sweet  security  sit  and  smoke 

And  treat  the  war  as  a  darned  good  joke 

And  laugh  at  our  heaviest  shelling. 

Baupomme,  they  said,  was  a  piece  of  it, 
Vimy,  we  heard,  was  another  bit, 
And  so  was  Messines,  they  told  us. 
And  now  they  say,  in  a  whisper  small. 
These  lines,  of  which  they  had  talked  so  tall, 

98 


THE  HINDENBURG  LINE 

Are  not  the  Hindenburg  line  at  all, 
And  never  were  meant  to  hold  us. 

It's  really  deucedly  hard  on  us 
To  take  a  chance  on  a  lot  of  fuss 
And  a  decent  amount  of  murther, 
To  take  a  line  that,  we  have  no  doubt, 
Is  Hindy's  special  —  to  chase  Fritz  out, 
And  hear  the  journals  of  Hunland  shout 
That  the  Hindenburg  line's  back  further. 

A  dozen  times  we've  been  on  its  track  — 
A  dozen  times  it's  moved  further  back  — 
So  we  never  quite  seem  to  reach  it. 
Old  Hindy's  strategy  seems,  in  fine. 
To  pick  up  his  blooming  funny  line 
And  take  it  with  him  across  the  Rhine 
So  we  won't  get  a  chance  to  breach  it. 

But  some  fine  morning —  (may  it  be  near!) 
We'll  ramble  over  the  Hun  frontier 
And  see  how  things  look  behind  it. 
By  then  the  line  will  be  rather  thin 
And  travel-stained,  but,  as  sure  as  sin, 
They  can't  go  further  than  old  Berlin, 
So  there  we'll  be  sure  to  find  it 

99 


BALLAD  OF  BOOZE 

Two  extracts  from  Divisional  Orders: 

(i)  Water  from  these  wells  to  be  drunk  only  after 
having  been  chlorinated. 

(2)  An  issue  of  Petrol  tins  (empty)  has  been  author- 
ized at  the  rate  of  per  Bn.     These  cans  will  be  used 

to  hold  drinking  water  and  will  be  shown  as  trench  stores. 

Bards  sing  the  glory  of  the  grape  — 
The  sun-kissed  clusters  of  the  vine  — 
And  claim  some  god  in  human  shape 
Brought  down  from  heaven  the  gift  of  wine. 
(I'd  like  to  hear  their  Hymn  of  Hate 
If  they  but  had  to  sing  their  song 
On  luke-warm  water  taken  straight 
And  chlorinated  far  too  strong.) 

Under  the  feet  of  maidens  fair 
Of  old,  'tis  said,  the  vintage  flowed  — 
That  was  the  stuff  to  banish  care 
And  help  a  man  along  his  road. 
(How  can  a  rhymester  really  rhyme, 
Or  scribble  verses  that  will  scan, 
100 


BALLAD  OF  BOOZE 

On  water  and  chloride  of  lime, 
Out  of  a  rusty  petrol  can?) 

Oh,  shades  of  schooners  that  have  sunk 

Sailing  across  the  polished  bar! 

Oh,  dreams  of  all  the  drinks  I've  drunk, 

Mem'ries  of  bottle,  glass  and  jar! 

Oh,  Bacchus,  veil  thy  vine-wreathed  brow 

And  mourn  the  sorry  fate  of  man : 

Tm  drinking  muddy  water  now 

Out  of  a  rusty  petrol  can. 

But,  though  the  world  be  dry  and  sad, 
There  are  some  places  yet,  methinks. 
Where  priests  of  Bacchus,  linen-clad, 
Concoct  benign  and  soothing  drinks. 
Where  men  absorb  the  soothing  rye, 
Where  highballs  cheer  the  heart  of  man, 
And  the  lone  cherry  floats  on  high  — 
Not  in  a  rusty  petrol  can. 

l'envoi 

In  vain,  in  vain,  the  grape  may  flow 
From  Leicester  Square  to  Yucatan  — 
The  only  vintage  that  we  know 
Comes  from  a  rusty  petrol  can.    ' 

lOI 


A  MINOR  OPERATION 

This  is  just  a  little  story  of  a  very  little  mine 
That  straightened  out  a  little  bit  of  very  awkward 
line. 

The  mine  went  up  at  four  o'clock  and  that  began 

the  show, 
Then  the  infantry  went  over,  half  a  thousand 

men,  or  so  — 
Just  the  half  of  one  battalion — (t'was  a  very 

small  attack). 
Went  out  that  misty  morning,  but  very  few  came 

back. 
For  Fritz  was  waiting  ready  and  his  shells  came 

thick  and  fast, 
And  men  went  down  without  a  sound  before  the 

shrapnel's  blast. 
While  Maxims  from  their  hidden  pits  —  dug  in 

on  either  hand  — 
Raked  with  their  red-hot  rain  of  death  the  width 

of  No  Man's  Land. 

102 


A  MINOR  OPERATION 

So  men  went  down  without  a  sound  and  lay  with- 
out a  stir; 

At  every  step  the  thinning  line  gapped  to  the 
whine  and  whirr 

Of  shrapnel,  and  at  every  step  the  Maxims  took 
their  toll, 

Till,  when  they  reached  the  muddy  pit  —  the  pit 
that  was  their  goal  — 

Of  all  the  men  that  started  out  across  the  steel- 
swept  strip 

A  score  were  left  to  take  and  hold,  along  the 
crater's  lip. 

A  half  a  thousand  fighting  men  at  dawn,  and 
now,  so  soon, 

A  score  of  weak  and  weary  men  of  Number  Nine 
Platoon : 

A  score  of  weak  and  weary  men  —  weary,  but 
full  of  fight. 

With  not  a  chance  on  earth  of  help  before  the  fall 
of  night. 

One  Lewis  and  a  score  of  men  wait,  silently  and 

grim. 
Ready  to  hold  while  one  still  stands  along  the 

crater's  rim, 


103 


A  MINOR  OPERATION 

So,    through   the   long,    long   morning   shrapnel 

barked  and  screamed  and  skirled, 
And  the  crash  of  bursting  heavies  seemed  to  shake 

the  very  v^orld, 
All  through  the  long,  long  morning  serried  waves 

of  grey-green  men 
Came  surging  down  upon  them,  broke,  and  melted 

back  again. 
All  through  the  long,  long  morning  those  behind 

the  line  could  tell 
That  the  few  who'd  reached  the  crater's  rim  were 

hanging  on  like  hell. 
They  could  hear  the  rifles  cracking,   sharp  and 

sudden,  like  a  whip. 
And  the  rattle  of  the  Lewis,  out  upon  the  crater's 

lip, 
But  when  the  morning  drifted  on  into  the  after- 
noon. 
There  still  were  seven  weary  men  of   Number 

Nine  Platoon. 

All  through  the  long,  long  afternoon  they  held, 

and  suffered  sore  — 
The  grey-green  waves  came  rolling  up,  and  melted 

back  once  more; 


104 


A  MINOR  OPERATION 

The   shrapnel    tore    and    seared    them    and    the 

heavies  racked  and  rent, 
But  they  hung  on,  grim  and  stubborn,  weak  and 

weary,  worn  and  spent. 
But  still  holding,  ever  holding,  growing  weaker, 

but  still  game; 
The  grey-green  waves  broke  on  them  till,  at  last, 

the  darkness  came 
And  reinforcements,  creeping  up  —  and  not  a  bit 

too  soon  — 
To  help  the  little  that  was  left  of  Number  Nine 

Platoon, — 
Found  nineteen  men  dead  —  stiff  and  stark  — 

down  in  the  mud,  and  one 
Dying,  but  with  his  failing  strength  gripping  a 

Lewis  gun. 

Just  a  minor  operation  that  you'd  never  hear 

about. 
But  'twill,  maybe,  help  to  show  you  just  how 

MEN  can  stick  it  out  — 
Can  go  through  red  hell  for  hours  and  get  up 

and  fight  again 
While  there's  one  life  left  amongst  them,  and  then 

die  —  and  die  like  MEN. 


105 


A  MINOR  OPERATION 

Though  there  isn't  any  monument  to  mark  their 
stubborn  stand  — 

Just  a  group  of  wooden  crosses  in  a  bare  and  bar- 
ren land  — 

When  they'd  got  that  crater  fastened,  good  and 
solid,  to  the  Line, 

In  the  name  of  those  who  held  it,  it  was  chris- 
tened "  Number  Nine." 


1 06 


EVOLUTION 

Back  in  the  dim  grey  dawn  of  things, 
When  snakes  flew  round  on  leather  wings, 
When  sHmy  things  with  spiky  spines 
Built  nests  in  the  primeval  pines, 
When  ten-ton  lizards  wandered  wide 
And  lived  upon  the  countryside, 
Man,  in  his  shaggy  suit  of  hair. 
Found  life  a  gloomy  vale  of  care. 
Things  were  so  big  and  he  so  small 
He  didn't  seem  to  count  at  all. 
Now  though  his  life  was  far  from  gay 
He  didn't  want  to  pass  away  — 
He  even  figured  if  he  stuck 
And  had  a  little  decent  luck 
He  might  outlive  the  snakes  and  things, 
In  spite  of  fangs  and  claws  and  wings. 

Now,  Man  had  never  thought  before, 
(Professors  say  his  brain  was  poor), 
But,  as  he  had  to  think  or  die. 
He  settled  down  to  have  a  try, 
107 


EVOLUTION 

And  after  years  of  mental  strain 
He  got  just  one  idea  plain: 
That  other  creatures,  all  and  each, 
Had  got  him  beaten  on  the  reach ; 
That,  armed  with  nothing  but  a  club, 
He  soon  became  some  serpent's  grub. 
And  that,  to  save  himself  from  harm, 
He  had  to  lengthen  out  his  arm. 
He  took  the  simplest  method  known 
And  learned  at  last  to  throw  a  stone. 
That  helped  to  even  things  a  bit. 
For  now  he  found  that  he  could  sit 
Secure  upon  some  high  rock's  rim, 
Where  nothing  could  get  up  to  him, 
And  soak  the  beasts  that  prowled  below 
With  chunks  of  flint  he'd  learned  to  throw. 

So,  many  ages  passed  away 
And  Man  grew  stronger  every  day. 
While  snakes  began  to  lose  their  wings 
And  all  the  other  nightmare  things 
Grew  smaller,  weaker  everyhow. 
More  like  the  beasties  we  have  now, 
Until  positions  were  reversed 
And  all  the  monsters  who,  at  first. 
Considered  man  their  daily  bread 
1 08 


EVOLUTION 

Now  found  he  hunted  them  instead. 
About  that  time  —  although,  in  fact, 
I  haven't  got  the  date  exact  — 
Somebody,  from  a  rawhide  string, 
Evolved  a  rough  and  ready  sling 
And  found  that  with  it  he  could  get 
His  stones  to  travel  farther  yet. 
So  'mong  the  tribes  'twas  quite  the  thing . 
To  have  the  latest  type  of  sling. 

Artillery  had  come  to  stay. 
So,  age  by  age  and  day  by  day, 
Came  great  improvements,  strange  and  new, 
Upon  the  rock  the  cavemen  threw. 
A  springy  bough,  a  supple  string. 
And  Man  first  heard  an  arrow  sing. 
(Although  he  didn't  know  it  then. 
That  fellow  started  something  when 
He  "  shot  an  arrow  in  the  air 
That  fell  to  earth  he  knew  not  where.") 
Then  heaps  of  new  ideas  came 
For  speeding  up  the  killing  game  — 
Far  stronger  bows,  far  straighter  shafts, 
With  fancy  feathers  on  their  hafts, 
And  catapults  of  every  size 
And  every  shape  man  could  devise 
109 


EVOLUTION 

To  throw  a  rock  that  weighed  a  ton, 
Or,  since  a  bow  could  throw  but  one 
Shaft  at  a  time,  machines  to  throw 
A  dozen  at  a  time  or  so  — 
But  all  these  fancy  killing  things 
Depended  for  their  strength  on  springs. 

Then  Roger  Bacon  —  merry  monk  — 
Learned  in  the  lore  of  things  that  stunk 
And  hissed  and  spluttered  in  retorts  — 
Mixed  up  some  dopes  of  different  sorts 
Which  nearly  blew  that  learned  lad 
Across  the  Styx —  (I  wish  they  had), 
But  Roger,  feeling  sure  he'd  struck 
Something  worth  while,  trusted  to  luck 
And  kept  on  fooling  with  the  stuff, 
Till,  by  and  by,  he'd  learned  enough 
To  use  it  in  a  lot  of  ways. 
Much  to  his  fellow  men's  amaze. 
By  filling  up  a  tube  with  it  — 
(They  say  it  shook  things  up  a  bit), 
He  made  it  throw  a  chunk  of  stone 
Farther  than  any  weapon  known; 
So  bow  and  catapult  were  dead 
And  Roger's  powder  reigned  instead. 

no 


EVOLUTION 

Tis  hardly  worth  our  while  to  trace 
The  other  changes  that  took  place 
Between  this  morning  and  the  one 
When  Roger  fired  his  wooden  gun, — 
But  now,  if  you  get  close  to  Fritz, 
You'll  probably  be  spread  in  bits 
Around  the  landscape  by  a  bomb 
Before  you  know  where  it  came  from  — 
For  bombs,  in  our  progressive  world. 
Replace  the  rocks  the  cavemen  hurled. 

Or,  if  you  show  your  silly  dome 

Above  the  parapet  of  home. 

Some  sniper,  half  a  mile  away, 

Will  (if  it  is  his  lucky  day), 

Drill  a  neat  hole  through  it,  and  then 

You'll  never  have  to  work  again  — 

And  that  will  only  go  to  show 

How  much  we  have  improved  the  bow. 

And  all  those  guns  you  see  about, 
Little  and  big,  beyond  a  doubt 
Are  just  the  daughters  and  the  sons 
Of  Roger's  little  wooden  guns. 
That  mess  of  dials,  gears  and  springs, 
Wheels,  verniers,  screws  and  other  things 
III 


EVOLUTION 

Beyond  the  wit  of  man  to  tell, 
That  only  throws  a  one-ton  shell 
And  throws  it  twenty  miles  or  so: 
It's  funny  when  you  think,  you  know, 
That  all  these  guns  and  things  are  due 
To  that  guy  who,  when  earth  was  new. 
Pulled  off  a  stunt,  till  then  unknown, 
And  threw  the  first  rough  chunk  of  stone. 

It  must  be  'most  a  million  years 
Since  that  guy  died,  but  it  appears 
To  me  that  if  his  astral  shade 
Could  see  the  progress  we  have  made, — 
Well,  he,  who  started  all  this  fuss, 
Would  think  the  joke  was  sure  on  us. 


112 


THE  INFANTRYMAN'S  OPINION  OF 
THE  INFANTRY 

It's  bomb  and  bayonet  and  bullet,  it's  bullet  and 

bayonet  and  bomb, 
In  the  mud  and  rain,  in  the  death  and  pain,  from 

the  grey  North  Sea  to  the  Somme; 
Till  your  soul  beats  back  o'er  the  unmapped  track 

to  the  place  that  it  first  came  from 
You  must  do  your  stunt  on  the  Western  Front 

with  bullet  and  bayonet  and  bomb. 
For  the  Engineers  and  Pioneers,  the  aeroplanes 

and  guns, 
Were   made   to   help   the    Infantry   to   lick   the 

bloomin'  Huns. 
They're  all  mighty  useful  people  and  they  do  their 

little  bit, 
But  they're  only  blasted  specialists  —  the  Infantry 

is  IT. 

We've  ciuite  a  lot  of  specialists  around 
To  do  a  lot  of  very  special  things; 

113 


THE  INFANTRYMAN'S  OPINION 

Some  burrow  like  the  mole  beneath  the  ground, 
While  some  go  gliding  far  above  on  wings; 
Some  build  our  roads  and  clear  away  the  muck; 
Some  build  us  little  railways  up  ahead, 
While  others  keep  a  store  or  drive  a  truck, 
Or  see  that  we  are  bathed,  or  clothed,  or  fed. 
All  useful  men,  of  course,  but  then  —  this  isn't 

really  crowing  — 
The  one  and  only  job  they  have  is  just  to  keep  US 

going. 

The  engineers,  we  know,  turn  out  in  state 
And  peg  out  pretty  tapes  along  the  ground. 
But  they'd  sure  have  a  most  unholy  wait 
If,  when  they  finished  some  fine  night,  they  found 
There  wasn't  any  Infantry  in  sight 
To  dig  a  trench  along  their  blessed  tape. 
The  engineers  are  useful  guys,  all  right. 
But  without  US  they'd  be  in  rotten  shape. 
They  stake  things  out  —  beyond  a  doubt  they  do 

it  mighty  pretty  — 
But  then  it's  up  to  US  to  dig  —  and  that's  a 

blasted  pity. 

Of  course  the  guns  are  mighty  useful,  too  — 
We've  got  to  have  'em,  everybody  knows, 
114 


THE  INFANTRYMAN'S  OPINION 

To  bust  the  wire  so  we  can  wander  through 
Without  a  fear  of  tearing  up  our  clothes ; 
They  raise  a  lot  of  noise  and  mud  and  fuss 
And  batter  Fritz's  parapet  to  bits, 
But  then  —  they  kindly  leave  it  up  to  US 
To  go  across  and  settle  things  with  Fritz. 
When  the  nine-point-twos  are  on  the  loose  and 

Fritz  is  hunting  cover. 
They've  got  to  have  the  Infantry  to  chase  the 

barrage  over. 

And  so  it  is  with  all  the  other  guys 

Who  think  they've  got  some  special  job  to  do  — 

Their  job  (and  we'll  admit  it's  quite  a  size) 

Is  just  to  help  the  Infantry  go  through. 

So,  if  the  A.  S.  C.  will  give  us  grub 

And  if  the  guns  will  kind  o'  clear  the  way, 

Just  leave  it  to  the  plain  Infantry  dub 

To  put  a  crimp  in  Kaiser  Billy's  Day. 

And  so,  my  son,  until  we're  done,  there's  just  one 

view  to  take  — 
The  specialist's  the  frosting,  but  the  Infantry's 

the  cake. 

So  it's  pick  and  shovel  and  rifle,  it's  rifle  and 
shovel  and  pick, 

115 


THE  INFANTRYMAN'S  OPINION 

In  the  mud  and  rain,  in  the  death  and  pain,  till 

you're  sorry  and  sore  and  sick; 
And  it's  dig  and  fight,  through  the  day  and  night, 

till  your  finish  comes  sure  and  quick. 
You  must  do  your  stunt  on  the  Western  Front 

with  rifle,  shovel  and  pick. 
For  the  R.  F.  C,  the  A.  S.  C,  and  R.  A.  M.  C, 

too, 
Were  put  upon  this  wicked  world  to  'tend  to  me 

and  you; 
They're  all  mighty  useful  people  and  they  do  their 

Httle  bit, 
But  they're  only  bloomin'  specialists  —  the  In- 
fantry is  IT. 


ii6 


ILS  NE  PASSERONT  PAS! 

"  They  shall  not  pass !  "     Battered  the  line  and 

bent 
But  holding  still  —  men  weary,  worn  and  spent 
Breasting  the  grey-green  waves  that,  like  a  flood, 
Roll  down  to  crush  them.     All  that  flesh  and 

blood 
Can  bear,  they  bear;  holding  like  living  rock, 
But  crumbling,  falling,  dying,  'neath  the  shock 
Of  hordes  that  seem  as  many  as  the  grass  — 
Then  down  the  line  it  came  — *'  They  shall  not 

pass!  " 

"  They  shall  not  pass !  " —  along  the  line  it  came. 
Sharp  as  a  sword-thrust,  vivid  as  a  flame  — 
The  soul  of  France  encompassed  in  a  breath, 
The  voice  of  France  that  called  her  sons  to  death. 
Then  men,  already  dead,  rose  up  again, 
Laughing  at  Death  —  triumphant  over  pain  — 
Back  from  the  gates  of  Death  again  to  die  — 
"  They  shall  not  pass !  "—  They  heard  the  Moth- 
er's cry. 

117 


ILS  NE  PASSERONT  PASS! 

"  They  shall  not  pass !  "  rolls  down  the  grey-green 

flood  — 
"  They  shall  not  pass !  " —  the  earth's  a-reek  with 

blood, 
The  land  they  love  is  gashed  and  torn  with  shell, 
The  smiling  fields  a  torn  and  tortured  hell; 
The  air's  a-riot  with  the  storm  of  steel. 
Locked  in  a  grip  of  death  the  armies  reel. 
But  ever  holds  the  thinning  line  of  blue  — 
"  They  shall  not  pass !  "  France  said :  they  held 

it  true. 

"  They  shall  not  pass !  "     Unbroken  still  the  wall 
That  guards  fair  France;  and,  though  her  sons 

may  fall, 
As  many  fell  beneath  those  grey-green  waves, 
Better  to  die  as  men  than  live  as  slaves. 
And,  think  you,  when  they  stand  before  the  great 
Angelic  guard,  that  watch  at  Heaven's  gate. 
That  He,  Who  trod  Himself  the  bitter  way. 
Will  say,  "  They  shall  not  pass !  "  to  such  as  they? 


ii8 


FED  UP 

Fed  up !     I'm  more  sick  of  the  war  every  day, 

It's  sure  getting  monotonous  now ; 

This  war  game  that  used  to  look  gallant  and  gay 

Is  beginning  to  bore  me,  somehow. 

I'm  sick  of  the  bullets,  I'm  sick  of  the  shells, 

I'm  sick  of  the  mud  and  the  rain, 

I'm  sick  of  the  sounds  and  the  sights  and  the 

smells, 
I'm  sick  of  the  terror  and  pain ; 
I'm  sick  of  the  trenches,  so  slimy  and  low. 
Of  the  dugouts,  so  gloomy  and  small; 
I'm  sick  unto  death  of  the  whole  blasted  show, 
Yes,  I'm  darned  well  fed  up  with  it  all. 

I'm  sick  of  the  flame  of  the  batteries  a-blaze, 
As  they  bellow  and  batter  and  bark ; 
I'm  sick  of  the  sun  shining  dim  through  the  haze 
That  hangs  over  a  land  dead  and  stark. 
I'm  sick  of  the  flare-lights  that  glimmer  and  gleam 
So  ghostly  and  ghastly  and  pale, 
I'm  sick  for  the  sheen  of  the  sun  on  the  stream 
119 


FED  UP 

And  the  starlight  a-shine  on  the  trail ; 

For    the    moonbeams    that    creep    through    the 

branches  o'erhead ; 
For  the  campfire  a-glow  on  the  plain; 
For  the  dawn  breaking  grey,  for  the  sun  setting 

red 
On  the  hills  of  the  Northland  again. 

I'm  sick  of  the  bullets  a-hissing  like  snakes, 

Of  the  whine  of  the  shells  overhead, 

Of   the  nerve-racking  rattle   the   "  typewriter " 

makes  — 
I  want  some  new  noises  instead. 
The  yelp  of  the  speeding  and  hard-straining  dogs, 
As  they  eat  up  the  miles  through  the  snow ; 
The  crackle  and  snap  of  the  bright-blazing  logs 
With  the  mercury  thirty  below; 
The  laugh  of  the  waters  alive  with  the  spring; 
The  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  trees; 
As  I  crouch  here  and  hark  to  the  bullets  that  sing 
I  can't  keep  from  thinking  of  these. 

I'm  sick  of  the  trenches,  I'm  sick  of  the  war, 
Of  the  death  that's  abroad  night  and  day ; 
I'm  tired  of  wondering  what  it's  all  for. 
If  it's  worth  the  grim  price  that  we  pay. 
1 20 


FED  UP 

Well,  it  isn't  a  picnic;  it's  merely  a  job  — 

Just  a  damned  dirty  job  to  be  done  — 

And  we  didn't  come  out  here  to  weep  and  to  sob, 

And  we  didn't  come  out  here  for  fun. 

No,  we  came  over  here  just  to  clean  up  a  mess  — 

Some  folks  call  it  ''  doing  our  bit  " — 

So  we'll  stick  to  the  finish,  but,  nevertheless, 

I'll  be  deucedly  glad  when  we  quit. 

When  we  get  back  again  to  the  lands  that  we 

knew. 
To  the  rivers  the  maps  never  show ; 
To  the  crystal-capped  mountains  that  pierce  to 

the  blue, 
To  the  purple-veiled  valleys  below. 
Back  again  to  the  paddle ;  again  to  the  pack ; 
Back  again  to  the  pick  and  the  pan ; 
To  the  mountains  imnamed;  to  the  untrodden 

track ; 
To  the  plains  unpolluted  by  man. 
In  the  peace  of  the  pines  and  the  hush  of  the  hills, 
In  the  silvery  song  of  the  stream, 
I  will  purge  my  soul  clear  of  all  terrors  and  ills 
And  believe  that  the  war  was  a  dream. 


121 


LAW  — AND  OTHER  THINGS 

As  I  was  mopin'  'round  a  trench  to  see  what  I 

could  see, 
I  came  upon  a  bloomin'  shaft  an'  a  guy  a-sittin' 

there. 
"  Good  evenin',  mate,"  says  I  to  him.    "  Evenin'," 

says  he  to  me  — 
His  boots  was  lumps  of  sticky  mud,  so  was  his 

bloomin'  hair, 
An'  half  the  mud  in  Sunny  France  was  plastered 

in  between ; 
So  I  knew  he  was  a  miner.     Well,  we  chewed  the 

fat  a  lot 
About  the  funny  things  we'd  heard  —  the  won- 
drous things  we'd  seen, 
Since  we  landed  in  this  happy  land  where  Hell  is 

served  out  hot. 
We  figured  out  the  war  from  every  known  and 

unknown  angle  — 
We  straightened  every  blasted  twist  and  untied 

every  tangle. 

122 


LAW  —  AND  OTHER  THINGS 

Says  I,  **  Where  are  you  workin'  now?"     Says 

he,  ''  That  hole  right  there 
"  Is  where   I   earn  my   dollar-ten,   and   earn   it 

mighty  hard  — 
"  But  she's  creepin'  out  quite  nicely  —  yep,  she's 

goin'  mighty  fine  — 
"  Tho'  we  get  a  million  tons  of  dirty  water  to  the 

yard." 
"What  did  you  do  before  the  war?"  says  I  to 

him,—"  no  bull." 
"  I  was  a  lawyer  once,"  says  he.     Says  I,  "  Upon 

my  soul, 
*'  My  legal  friend,  it  seems  to  me  you  must  have 

lost  your  pull, 
*'  'Cause  till  to-day  I  never  saw  a  lawyer  in  the 

hole." 
"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  says,  says  he,  "  my  son," 

says  he,  "  I've  found 
"  A  lot  of  lawyers  make  their  pile  by  workin' 

underground." 

"  Begob,"  says  I,  "maybe  you're  right" —  (Re- 

memberin'  the  day 
A  lawyer  took  my  hard-earned  kale  an'  blew  the 

bloomin'  case). 


123 


LAW  — AND  OTHER  THINGS 

"  But  tell  me,  has  a  miner,  grubbin'  in  the  dirty 

clay, 
"  Any  other  points  of  likeness  to  the  *  judge  an' 

jury '  race?  " 
"  The  points,"  says  he,  "  are  many,  but  I'll  give 

'em  to  you  short  — 
"  They  both  get  in  their  finest  work  when  audi- 
ences are  small  — 
"  A  lot  of  stuff  a  lawyer  pulls  is  never  known  in 

court  — 
*'  A  lot  of  things  a  miner  does  are  never  ..nown 

at  all  — 
"  A  lawyer's  doctrine,  someone  said  ( an'  mighty 

well  he  knew  it), 
"  Is  — *  find  a  loophole  in  the  law,  then  pull  your 

client  through  it/ 

"  Now,  there's  your  bloomin'  Law,"  says  he,  "  out 

there,"  an'  waved  his  hand 
Towards  the  stretch  of  shattered  earth  an'  torn 

an'  tattered  wire  — 
"  The  Law   is  represented  here,  we'll   say,   by 

No  Man's  Land, 
"An'  we've  got  to  find  a  hole  in  it  to  earn  our 

bloomin'  hire  — 


124 


LAW  — AND  OTHER  THINGS 

*'  (It  used  to  be  '  Retaining  Fee ').     An'  there's 

your  bloomin'  hole  — 
''That  tunnel  that  we're  diggin'  now  —  and  all 

around,"  says  he, 
*'  With  Enfield  rifles  in  their  fists  an'  battle  in 

their  soul, 
*'  You'll    find    our    clients    waitin' —  they're   the 

bloomin'  Infantree  — 
"  They're  watchin',  an'  they're  waitin',  an'  the 

only  thing  they're  heedin' 
*'  Is  the  damages  that  they'll  collect  when  we  get 
through  our  pleadin'. 

"  An'  when  we've  laid  our  case  out  fair,  an'  got 

our  pleadin'  done — - 
"  (That's  when  we've  got  our  tunnel  dug  an' 

chambered  at  the  ends)  — 
"  We  start  upon  our  summary.     Our  main  points, 

one  by  one, 
"  Are  displayed  in  such  a  manner  as  to  jar  our 

learned  friends  — 
"  The  gentlemen  that  represent  the  other  side  — 

an'  then, 
"  Although  they  do  their  blasted  best  to  block  our 

every  move, 


125 


LAW  — AND  OTHER  THINGS 

*'  In  spite  of  all  that  they  can  do,  we  reach  a 

juncture  when 
"  A  ton  or  so  of  ammonal  is  pretty  sure  to  prove 
*'  That,  though  our  methods  sometimes  overstep 

decorum's  border, 
**  They  never  fail  to  make  the  Hun  '  rise  to  a 

point  of  order/ 


*'  An'  now  I'm  goin'  down  again,  to  file  another 

plea  — 
*'  (This  job  is  like  the  Higher  Court  —  plumb  full 

of  *  Law's  delays  ')  — 
"If  you  stick  round  this  line  a  while,  you  bet 

your  boots  you'll  see 
"  That  in  a  crooked  case  like  this,  the  side  that 

loses,  pays. 
*'  An'  when  we  make  our  final  speech  an'  push 

things  heavenwards, 
"  An'  our  clients  ramble  over  some  grey  mornin', 

wet  an'  cold, 
"  To  gather  in  the  damages  the  bloomin'  Court 

awards, 
"  I  think  you'll  realize,  although  a  lot  of  lawyers 

hold 
"  That  an  appeal  to  Higher  Courts  is  generally 

sufficient, 

126 


LAW  — AND  OTHER  THINGS 

"  An  appeal  to  high  explosives  is  a  damn'  sight 
more  efficient.'' 

With  that  he  vanished  down  his  shaft,  an'  I  sat 

in  the  trench, 
Chewin'  the  cud  on  what  he'd  said,  an'  this  is 

how  it  struck  me  — 
That  all  the  wordy  wisdom  of  the  battlefield  an' 

bench 
Could  be  put  in  a  score  of  words,  as  far  as  I 

could  see  — 
''  That,  if  the  guy  is  double-armed  that  has  his 

quarrel  just, 
"  (This  summing  up  is  borrowed  from  some  liter- 
ary sport), 
"  The  other  chap  is  triple  armed  that  lands  his 

wallop  fust." 
But,  if  I  just  could  get  that  guy  to  plead  for  me 

in  court. 
In  spite  of  honest  juries,  an'  in  spite  of  legal 

sinning, 
I'd  sue  a  million-dollar  trust  —  an'  take  a  chance 

on  winning. 


127 


BEFORE  ZERO 

My  backbone's  limp  as  a  chewed-up  string;  my 

belly's  hugging  my  spine, 
My  joints  hang  loose  as  the  very  deuce  and  I'd 

like  to  lie  down  and  whine. 
I'm  sick  of  the  whole  confounded  game  and  gen- 
erally on  the  bum, 
And  I'd  sell  my  shoes  for  a  shot  of  booze,  or  my 

soul  for  a  jolt  of  rum. 
I'm  cold  and  weary  and  mighty  wet  —  I'm  sorry 

and  scared  as  well  — 
I  like  a  fight  when  it's  started  right,  but  this 

waiting's  just  live  red  hell. 
That  wind  is  some  beautiful  zephyr,  too;  sweet 

breezes  of  balmy  spring  — 
I  do  NOT  think  —  and  as  black  as  ink  —  can't  see 

a  confounded  thing. 
But  what  in  hell  is  the  bloomin'  odds?     There 

isn't  a  thing  to  see 
'Cept  a  mangled  mill  and  a  shell-shocked  hill  — 

an'  that  doesn't  look  good  to  me. 
128 


BEFORE  ZERO 

Gee,  but  that  rain  is  most  awful  cold  —  I  bet  it'll 

turn  to  snow, 
They  never  forget  to  turn  on  the  wet  whenever 

we  stage  a  show. 
I  wonder  how  Fritz  is  feelin'  now  —  I'll  bet  he 

don't  care  a  damn  — 
Down  sound  asleep  in  a  dugout  deep,  as  happy's 

a  blasted  clam. 
Don't  let  it  w^orry  you,  Fritz,  old  pal;  you  wait 

for  a  little  while  — 
We'll  be  visitin'  you  in  an  hour  or  two,  and  then 

it's  our  turn  to  smile. 
Say,  how  do  you  think  it's  goin'  to  work  ?     Think 

you'll  enjoy  the  fun? 
What'll  you  do  when  we  get  to  you,  Kamerad  or 

fight  or  run? 
Kamerad  or  scrap  or  beat  it  —  throw  up  your 

hands  or  fight? 
Think  you  can  stick  when  the  shells  fall  thick  and 

the  bayonets  look  cold  and  white? 

When  the  first  grey  streaks  are  showing  and  the 

boys  are  over  the  top, 
Think   you   can   stay   when   we're   once   away? 

Think  you  can  make  us  stop? 


129 


BEFORE  ZERO 

Oh,  well,  what's  the  blasted  difference?    WeVe 

done  the  same  stunt  before, 
And  the  lucky  men  that  get  back  again  will  tackle 

it  ten  times  more. 
There's  a  streak  of  grey  to  the  east'ard,  I  guess 

we'll  be  startin'  soon, 
An'  we'll  have  some  fun  with  the  gentle  Hun, 

'fore  we  finish  the  afternoon. 
There  go  the  guns  —  some  racket  —  now  it's  our 

turn,  I  guess  — 
Over  the  top  where  the  big  shells  drop  to  clean 

up  the  nasty  mess. 
The  Devil  may  take  the  hindmost,  but  watch  my 

smoke  and  you'll  see 
That,  whoe'er  he  gets,  you  can  make  your  bets 

that  he  won't  get  his  claws  on  me. 


130 


THE  SNIPER 

You  can  sometimes  dodge  a  whizz-bang  —  you 
can  hear  a  coal-box  coming; 

You  can  duck  machine-gun  bullets  once  you  hear 
the  blighters  humming; 

You  can  beat  it  from  a  sausage  when  you  see  it 
coming  over, 

And  a  rum-jar'll  seldom  jar  you  if  you've  got 
half  decent  cover  — 

But,  once  let  a  sniper  spot  you  through  his  tele- 
scopic sight 

And  you're  booked  straight  through  to  Blighty  — 
either  that,  or  else  '*  Good-night." 

A  jolt  of  rum's  the  remedy  for  all  the  rains  that 

wet  you ; 
If  you  rub  on  lots  of  whale  oil,  why,  trench  feet 

will  seldom  get  you; 
You  can  dodge  'most  every  form  of  death  this 

wicked  war  produces. 
But,  as  sure  as  three  big  aces  will  clean  up  a  pair 

of  deuces, 

131 


THE  SNIPER 

When  a  sniper  gets  you  covered,  spite  of  all  that 

you  can  do, 
It's  a  little  bed  in  Blighty  or  an  R.  I.  P.  for  you. 

He's  a  willing  little  worker  and  confoundedly 
efficient, 

He  doesn't  need  a  lot  of  time  —  a  second  is  suf- 
ficient. 

If  my  word  isn't  good  enough  just  have  a  demon- 
stration — 

There's  a  fellow  snipes  from  over  there  that's 
surer  than  damnation ; 

Just  stick  up  your  head  a  second  and  I'll  bet  a 
good  cigar 

That  you'll  get  a  trip  to  Blighty  or  a  long  sleep 
where  you  are. 

He's  a  marvel  at  concealment  and  a  wizard  at 
disguises  — 

He's  full  of  unexpectedness  and  loaded  with  sur- 
prises — 

He's  sudden  death  in  human  form,  waiting,  alert 
and  ready. 

With  a  trigger  finger  always  crooked,  a  nerve 
that's  always  steady. 


132 


THE  SNIPER 

That  bush  'cross  there  may  be  a  bush  —  it  looks 

Hke  one  to  me  — 
But  unless  you're  tired  of  living  don't  put  up 

your  head  to  see. 

Though  we  curse  the  busy  sniper  to  the  seventh 
generation 

And  express  grim  hopes  regarding  his  post- 
mortem habitation  — 

Though  his  ways  are  disconcerting  and  his  habits 
most  upsetting  — 

Though  we  try  so  hard  to  get  him  —  and  he  takes 
a  lot  of  getting: 

Still,  he's  got  a  darned  tough  job  to  do  and  does 
it  mighty  well, 

So  we've  got  to  hand  it  to  him,  for  he's  got  cold 
nerve  to  sell. 


133 


"  UP  THE  LINE  " 

I've  mushed  a  lot  of  miles  along  a  lot  of  frozen 

trails,  with  my  trotters  just  like  little  lumps 

of  ice  — 
I've  crossed  some  bloomin'  deserts,  ankle-deep  in 

red-hot  sand,  an',  by  the  great  horn  spoon, 

'twas  far  from  nice; 
I've  packed  my  blankets  over  quite  a  bunch  of 

railway  lines,  an'  stubbed  my  toes  on  'bout 

a  million  ties  — 
I've  nearly  worn  my  legs  away,  hiking,  for  twenty 

years,   on   every   kind   of   trail   man   could 

devise. 
But  I  never  struck  the  real  thing  till  I  got  khaki 

clothes,  an'  made  a  little  trip  across  the  sea : 
Now  I've  learned  —  and  learned  it  proper  —  in 

this  healthy,  happy  land,  what  a  most  un- 
holy job  a  hike  can  be. 
I  used  to  think  a  hundred  miles  was  just  a  decent 

stroll  —  I    never    used    to    mind    it,    over 

there  — 

134 


"  UP  THE  LINE  '* 

But,  with  half  the  blasted  country  stickin'  to  your 
bloomin'  boots,  why,  a  mile  or  two  will  get 
your  goat  for  fair. 

.When  the  whole  darned  earth's  converted  to  a. 
mess  of  sticky  mush  - 

When  you  slip  and  slide  and  slither  in  the  slimy, 
stinkin'  slush  — 

When  you  make  a  mile  an  hour  when  you're 
tryin'  hard  to  rush  — 

In  the  clingin'  Flanders  slime  — 

When  it's  four  miles  and  a  quarter  from  the  rest 
camp  to  the  line, 

An'  the  trip  takes  six  long  hours,  it's  a  sure  and 
certain  sign, 

If  you're  steppin'  thirty  inches,  that  you're  slip- 
pin'  twenty-nine  — 

An'  the  roads  are  sure  a  crime. 

When  you  start  the  march  you're  happy  as  an 
old  deep-water  clam ;  you  haven't  got  a  trou- 
ble to  your  name; 

You've  been  fed  and  bathed  and  rested  and,  as 
far  as  you  can  see,  the  war  is  quite  a  decent 
sort  of  game. 


135 


"UP  THE  LINE'' 

You're  all  dressed  up  like  Astor's  Horse,  all  pol- 
ished up  and  clean  —  you've  polished  every 

bit  of  brass  in  sight  — 
Your  rifle's  just  a  bloomin'  toy  an'  doesn't  weigh 

an  ounce,  an'  your  pack  is  really  sunshine, 

it's  so  light. 
Then   you   start  out   good   an'   happy   an'   you 

whistle  as  you  go,   for  a  march  is  just  a 

darned  good  joke  to  you. 
An'  you  swing  along  regardless,  for  the  road  is 

good  just  here,  till,  by  and  bye,  you  strike 

a  rut  or  two. 
Then  your  pack  gets  kind  o'  heavy,  an'  the  straps 

begin  to  chafe,  an'  you  curse  your  rifle  for  a 

clumsy  swine, 
An'  the  boys  begin  to  straggle  as  they  hit  the 

muddy  spots,  an'  the  whist'lin'  grows  fainter 

down  the  line. 

Oh,  the  first  half-mile  is  easy  —  you  can  do  it  in 

your  sleep. 
But  your  pack  gets  kind  o'  heavy  an'  the  mud 

gets  kind  o'  deep. 
An'  you  wonder  what  confounde^  fool  expects 

a  man  to  keep 
The  step  they  set  in  front. 
136 


"  UP  THE  LINE  " 

An'  your  rifle  weighs  a  hundredweight,  your  pack 

at  least  a  ton, 
Your  boots  weigh  fifty  pounds  apiece  as  sure  as 

they  weigh  one, 
You've  got  a  long  way  yet  to  go  —  you're  pretty 

nearly  done  — 
It's  sure  a  cheerful  stunt. 

Well,  you  plug  on  for  an  hour ;  then  you  fall  out 

for  a  rest  —  ten  minutes  by  the  roadside  in 

the  rain  — 
Chuck   your    pack    down    in    a    puddle,    try    to 

straighten  out  your  kinks,  an'  it's  time  to 

start  and  plug  along  again. 
Find  your  pack  all  soaked  an'  slimy  an'  your  rifle 

choked  with  mud,  an'  the  strings  of  both 

your  puttees  come  untied  — 
An'  then,  just  as  you  get  started,  some  fool  lorry 

rolls  along,  an'  you're  pushed  into  the  ditch 

along  the  side. 
Sick  an'  sorry,   wet  an'  weary,   fed  up  to  the 

bloomin'  teeth,  an'  a  long,  long  stretch  of 

road  to  cover  yet. 
So  you  slip  along  an'  slide  along,  you  flounder, 

flop  an'  splash,  through  the  darkness  an'  the 

dirtiness,  an'  wet; 

^37 


"  UP  THE  LINE '' 

Till  at  last  you  reach  the  trenches  an'  you  thank 
the  gods  of  war  that,  in  spite  of  all  the  gen- 
tle Hun  can  do, 

You'll  have  several  days  to  rest  in  —  that  is,  if 
you've  any  luck — 'fore  they  drag  you  out 
to  do  that  hike  anew. 

Oh,  the  trenches  ain't  no  Paradise,  as  everybody 

knows  — 
An'  there's  mighty  little  kindness  in  the  bouquets 

Fritzy  throws. 
An*  the  fun  of  dodgin'  rum- jars  kind  o'  keeps  us 

on  our  toes. 
Still,  it  ain't  so  awful  worse  — 
But  a  hike  along  a  highway  where  the  mud  is 

ankle  deep, 
When  you're  loaded  down  like  pack-mules  an' 

you're  stragglin'  like  sheep, 
Would,  if  he  could  only  see  it,  make  a  bloomin' 

angel  weep  — 
Though  it  only  makes  us  curse. 


138 


THE  PRICE 

There's  never  a  yard  of  all  these  yards  of  tram- 
pled grass  and  mud 

But  has  felt  the  stain  of  the  war's  red  rain,  the 
drip  of  a  hero's  blood. 

And  never  a  tree  of  all  these  trees,  grim  gaunt 
'gainst  the  sullen  sky. 

Nor  barn  nor  byre  nor  shattered  spire,  but  has 
visioned  a  brave  man  die. 

Or  on  which  the  eye  of  a  dying  man  has  rested, 
ere  Death's  kind  hand 

Tore  the  soul  away  from  the  tortured  clay.  In 
all  of  this  dreary  land 

There  is  never  a  spot  where  a  man  may  stand, 
to  east,  or  to  west,  or  north. 

But  a  man  has  fought,  as  a  brave  man  ought,  and 
a  brave  man's  soul's  gone  forth. 

There  is  never  a  road  of  the  roads  that  wind  oy 
meadow  and  farm  and  hill. 

But  a  man  has  trod  e'er  he  faced  his  God,  new- 
hot  from  the  lust  to  kill. 

139 


THE  PRICE 

And  never  a  town  of  all  these  towns,  so  battered 

and  drear  and  dead, 
But  has  seen  men  hale  as  the  stars  grew  pale  and 

cold  e'er  the  sun  rose  red. 

We    have    won    it   hard  —  we   have    bought    it 

dear  —    id  the  price  has  been  fairly  paid  — 
And  the  payment's  told,  not  alone  in  gold,  but  the 

coin  of  the  soldier's  trade; 
We   have   won    it    hard  —  we    have    bought    it 

dear  —  and  the  price  has  been  stern  and 

hard  — 
A  dying  groan  for  each  heap  of  stone  —  a  life 

for  each  hard-held  yard. 
We  have  paid  rich  toll  at  the  gate  of  Death  for 

the  dreary  roads  that  we  tread, 
For  each  winding  lane  we  have  paid  again  — 

we  have  blazed  the  trails  with  our  dead. 
We  have  paid  full  fee  for  each  tortured  town  — 

shell-shattered  and  scarred  with  fire  — 
Full  tax  and  rent  for  each  tenement  —  for  build- 
ing and  barn  and  byre  — 
And  the  deed  is  writ  on  the  ravished  fields,  and 

sealed  with  a  wooden  cross  — 
We  have  paid  the  price  in  grim  sacrifice  —  in 

death  and  in  bitter  loss  — 
140 


THE  PRICE 

For  a  group  of  villages,  racked  and  rent  —  for  a 

holding  of  barren  land  — 
For  some  war-pruned  trees  —  we  have  paid  the 

fees  to  the  full  of  the  law's  demand. 

To  the  last  grim  coin  of  a  grim  account,  we  have 

paid  by  the  war's  grim  laws, 
In  doom  and  death  and  the  rasping  breath  that 

struggles  through  stiffening  jaws  — 
In  broken  bodies  and  broken  hearts  —  in  graves 

and  in  crosses  white. 
Has  the  price  been  told  for  the  lands  we  hold  by 

the  strength  of  our  naked  might. 

Then,  when  the  cannon  shall  cease  to  roar  and 

the  sword  shall  be  laid  away. 
When  ye  come  in  bands   from  your   sheltered 

lands,  as  ye  flock  to  the  fields  of  play, 
What  will  ye  see  in  this  barren  land  that  lies  like 

a  land  struck  dead? 
In  shattered  spire  and  ruined  byre,  and  in  streets 

that  have  once  run  red? 
Will  ye  set  a  price  on  these  ruined  towns,  that 

many  have  died  to  hold  ? 
Will  ye  name  the  loss  in  your  merchant's  dross, 

in  silver  or  minted  gold? 
141 


THE  PRICE 

Will  ye  figure  the  worth  of  this  mangled  mound, 

where  men  died  quick  and  hard? 
Or  reckon  the  yield  of  this  flower-strewn  field  at 

so  many  pounds  per  yard? 
Will  ye  prate  of  shadows  and  light-effects,  as  ye 

gaze  when  the  day  is  done, 
At  that  stump  of  spire  that's  bathed  in  fire  by 

the  rays  of  the  setting  sun? 
Will  ye  chatter  the  jargon  of  architects  in  that 

ruined  cathedral's  naves? 
Will  ye  stand  by  the  bed  of  a  thousand  dead,  and 

say,  "  What  a  lot  of  graves !  " 
Will  ye  come  with  your  sketch-books  and  maps 

and   guides   and,   thronging   the   land   like 

sheep, 
Bring  the  sordid  talk  of  the  merchants'  walk  to 

the  land  where  wc  take  our  sleep? 

Or,  as  ye  stand  in  a  waking  dream,  in  the  streets 

of  some  old  grey  town. 
Will  ye  hear  the  beat  of  unnumbered  feet,  as  the 

legions  of  dead  march  down 
Through  the  gathering  gloom  of  the  eventide,  as 

they  marched  in  the  days  of  yore, 
By  the  ragged  lanes  and  the  ravished  plains  to 

the  line  that  they  held  before? 
142 


THE  PRICE 

Will  ye  see  the  gleam  of  the  cold,  white  steel  as 

down  through  the  line  it  runs, 
As  the  battle  locks  and  the  whole  world  rocks  to 

the  rage  of  the  reeking  guns? 
Will  ye  hear  the  rattle  of  rifle  fire  as  it  runs  down 

the  firing-bench? 
Or  the  snarl  and  smash  when  the  shrapnel's  crash 

bursts  low  on  the  crowded  trench? 
Will  ye  see  men  walk  through  an  iron  storm  as 

men  stroll  down  a  peaceful  path, 
When  the  earth's  a-reel  with  the  storm  of  steel 

and  the  skies  seem  to  vomit  wrath  ? 
Will  ye  see  men  rise  from  the  heaped  up  dead, 

with  never  a  thought  of  pain, 
For  one  last  weak  blow,  ere  they're  forced  to  go 

to  the  land  of  the  gallant  slain? 
Will  ye  see  men  die  for  a  battered  trench  as  if 

for  a  holy  place, 
And  laugh  at  Death  with  their  latest  breath,  and 

die  with  a  smiling  face? 

If  ye  see  these  things  in  this  dead  drear  land  — 
the  doom  and  the  death  and  pain, 

Ye  will  know  the  price  in  grim  sacrifice  that  we 
paid  for  this  barren  plain. 


143 


THE  PRICE 

But  'twas  not  alone  for  a  strip  of  land  we  were 

willing  and  glad  to  give 
Our  lives  in  fee  but  to  guarantee  the  right  of  the 

world  to  live. 
So  as  ye  stand  by  our  bitter  graves,  by  the  grace 

of  God  ye  may  see 
In  each  wooden  cross,  not  the  sign  of  loss,  but 

the  seal  of  a  world  set  free. 


144 


STILL-HUNTING 

I'm  lyin'  on  a  slag-heap  —  an'  it  ain't  no  feather- 
bed— 

With  a  million  comers  borin'  through  my  hide; 

There's  a  dead  Hun  lyin'  just  in  front  —  he's 
very,  very  dead  — 

I  wonder  how  the  hell  the  blighter  died. 

The  German  trenches  twist  an'  twine  five  hundred 
yards  away, 

(You  can  see  the  dirty  sandbags  good  an'  plain) 

An'  I'm  layin'  for  a  sniper :  if  I  have  to  wait  all 
day 

I'll  fix  him  so  he'll  never  snipe  again. 

There's   little,    lazy   smoke-wreaths    from    some 

chimneys  up  ahead  — 
I  wonder  now  what  village  that  would  be? 
(Confound  that  Hun  —  I  wish  he  wasn't  quite 

so  blasted  dead) 
Lyin'  up  here,  there's  lots  of  things  to  see.  .  .  . 
I'll  bet  that  bust-up  house  is  gettin'  mighty  hot 

for  Fritz, 

145 


STlLL-HUNTlNG 

Our  heavies  sure  are  poundin'  it  like  futt.  *  4  * 
Well,  go  to  it,  my  hearties,  take  the  blurry  place 

to  bits  — 
I'm  waitin'  for  an  extra  special  Hun. 

I  wonder  where  the  blighter  hides?  Somewhere 
in  front,  that's  sure. 

There's  no  place  in  his  trench  where  he  could 
shoot 

An'  enfilade  our  blasted  bay  —  I  compreed  that 
before; 

But  how  in  blazes  can  I  find  the  brute? 

He  must  be  somewhere  out  in  front  —  the  ques- 
tion is  "  Just  where  ?  " 

If  I  knew  that,  I  guess,  Fd  know  a  lot.  .  .  . 

That  sun  is  most  ungodly  hot  —  it's  f rizzlin'  my 
hair  — 

Oh,  well.  ...  If  I  can  only  get  a  shot. 

The  shrapnel  puffs  are  woolly-white  —  the  sky  is 

solid  blue; 
The  sun  is  like  a  red-hot  copper  ball ; 
The  skin  is  all  burnt  off  my  neck,  I'm  good  an' 

thirsty,  too  — 
Straight,  now  —  I'm  not  enjoyin'  this  at  all. 


146 


STILL-HUNTING 

If  I  could  only  see  that  Hun.  .  .  .  Now,  what 

the  hell  was  that  ? 
I^m  sure  that  something  moved  just  over  there  — 
By  God,  I've  got  the  blighter  —  got  him  proper, 

got  him  flat  — 
Heiney,  old  boy,  I've  got  you  now  for  fair. 

We  owe  you  quite  a  little  an'  we'll  settle  good  an' 

right  — 
(I  guess  three  hundred  ought  to  do  the  trick  — 
P'rhaps  we'd  better  say  three-fifty,  'cause  the  sun 

is  pretty  bright), 
There's  Bill  McGay,  an'  Jimmy  House,  an'  Mick ; 
They're  all  napoo,  my  snipin'  friend  —  I  guess 

that  you're  to  blame ; 
There's  Sergeant  Smith  in  Blighty,  an'  there's 

Bob  — 
I  guess  'twas  you  that  got  'em  all.     Well,  here's 

to  end  your  game 
An'  finish  up  a  dirty  little  job. 

Three-fifty  —  not  a  breath  of  wind  —  that  ought 

to  do  the  trick  — 
I  couldn't  miss  the  blighter  if  I  tried. 
Now,  gently  on  the  trigger.  .  .  .  Got  him.  .  .  . 

See  the  blighter  kick ! 

147 


STILL-HUNTING 

An'  here's  another,  just  from  sinful  pride, 

To  show  you  I  can  do  it  twice.     Take  that,  you 

snipin'  swine, 
I  guess  that  ought  to  hold  you  for  a  while. 
You  made  life  damned  uncertain  in  our  corner 

of  the  line. 
But  now,  confound  you,  it's  our  turn  to  smile. 

Well,  that  job's  done,  an'  now  I  s'pose  I've  got 

to  wait  till  night 
'Fore  I  can  get  to  blazes  out  of  here. 
But,  anyhow,  I  got  the  guy  I  started  for  all  right, 
So  I  should  worry  if  Fm  stuck  a  year. 
I'll  have  to  write  to  Smith,  an'  Bob,  first  time  I 

get  a  chance, 
*Twill,  maybe,  buck  *em  up  a  bit  to  know 
The  Hun  that  perforated  them  stopped  something 

out  in  France 
An'  lost  his  bloomin'  interest  in  the  show. 


1148 


ANTICIPATION 

(With  apologies  to  Rudyard  Kipling) 

.When  we've  followed  the  last,  lean  barrage  — 

when  we've  fired  the  final  gun  — 
When  we've  landed  the  ultimate  wallop  on  the 

jaw  of  the  last,  lone  Hun  — 
We  shall  wash,  and,  faith,  we  shall  need  it :  our 

need  will  be  bitter  by  then ; 
We  will  revel  in  soap  and  water  for  ever  and  ever, 

amen. 

We  will  wallow  in  water  tepid,  in  water  that*s  icy 

cold, 
In  water  as  hot  as  the  hell-fire  they  preached  in 

the  days  of  old; 
The  soap  that  is  scented  shall  soothe  us,  until,  at 

the  long,  long  last, 
We  shall  stand  forth  clean  and  resplendent  as  we 

did  in  the  days  long  past. 

Then  none  shall  be  muddy  and  trench-stained, 
and  none  shall  be  soiled  with  dirt, 
149 


ANTICIPATION 

But  the  skin  that  is  clean  shall  answer  the  kiss 

of  the  silken  shirt; 
When  each  in  separate  bath-room,  to  the  full  of 

his  heart's  content, 
Shall  be  free  from  the  dirt  he  gathered  on  his 

tour  of  the  Continent. 


ISO 


"STUNTS"— ANCIENT  AND   MODERN 

Old  Ajax  dared  the  lightning,  just  to  sho\v  that 

he  was  game  — 
(At  least,  the  school-books  say  he  did,  an'  that's 

about  the  same). 
They  all  said  he  was  a  hero,  an'  they  tell  about 

him  yet  — 
Maybe  it  was  some  stunt  to  pull,  but,  still,  I'd 

like  to  bet, 
If  we  had  old  Ajax  over  here  he  wouldn't  show 

at  all, 
'Cause  the  stuff  that  Fritzy  throws  all  day  makes 

thunderbolts  look  small. 
Old  Ajax  was  "  some  pumpkins,"  but  I'd  surely 

like  to  see 
Him  do  his  great  defyin'  stunt  on  fifteen-inch 

H.  E. 

The  Spartan  boy,  he  caught  a  fox,  an'  cached  it 

in  his  vest; 
The  fox,  he  chewed  an'  chewed  until  the  Spartan 

boy  went  west; 

151 


^\J 


"  STUNTS  "— ANCIENT  AND   MODERN 

Th'  Official  Correspondent  wrote  the  story  in 
pure  Greek, 

An'  I  read  it  —  in  bum  English  —  in  a  news- 
paper last  week. 

But  that  Spartan  boy  has  nothing  on  the  soldier 
on  parade, 

Who  stands  just  as  still  an*  steady  as  the  stiffest 
statue  made. 

(Every  scrap  of  metal  polished,  not  the  smallest 
speck  of  dirt) 

While  a  hundred  hungry  "  cooties  "  do  a  route- 
march  on  his  shirt. 

Old  Sinbad  in  the  story  had  the  Old  Man  of  the 

Sea 
Hangin'  heavy  on  his  shoulders,  but  at  last  he 

shook  him  free ; 
But  old  Sinbad  sure  was  lucky,  'cause  he  never  had 

a  pack 
Weighin'  half  a  million  hundredweight  on  his 

unhappy  back. 
With  straps  that  cut  like  wire,  an'  all  kinds  of 

knobs  and  knots, 
Pressin'  on  his  poor  anatomy  at  all  the  tender 

spots  — 


152 


"  STUNTS  "— ANCIENT  AND   MODERN 

Old  Sinbad  shook  his  load  one  day,  as  simple  as 

can  be, 
But,  if  we  ditch  our  blasted  packs,  it's  fourteen 

days  F.  P. 

Von  Hercules  got  busy  with  a  shovel,  it  appears, 
An'  he  cleaned  a  set  of  horse-lines  that  had  not 

been  cleaned  for  years. 
Which  they  thought  was  quite  some  diggin',  an' 

they  made  a  lot  of  fuss 
Over  Here,  because  he  did  it  —  but  they  ought  to 

look  at  us, 
Landscape-gard'nin'  out  in  Flanders,  with  our 

''  Shovels,  G.  S.,  One," 
On  a  job  that's  always  doin'  but  is  never,  never 

done. 
Sure,  old  Here  cleaned  up  a  stable,  an'  no  doubt 

he  did  it  right. 
But  —  we  shovel  half  of  Belgium  into  sandbags 

every  night. 

For  the  lightning  that  old  Ajax   faced,  we've 

shells  of  every  kind. 
Our  "  cooties  "  leave  the  Spartan's  fox  a  long, 

long  way  behind; 


153 


"STUNTS"— ANCIENT  AND   MODERN 

Though  we're  not  blessed,  Hke  Sinbad,  with  an 
old  man  on  our  backs, 

We've  got  something  just  as  pleasant  —  thafs 
our  blasted  army  packs. 

An'  though  cleanin'  someone's  stable  might  be 
quite  a  job  for  Here, 

Why,  compared  to  fill  in'  sandbags,  you  could 
hardly  call  it  work; 

So  Friends  Ajax,  Here,  an'  Sinbad,  an'  my  Spar- 
tan stripling  gay, 

We  see  all  your  bets  —  an'  raise  'em  —  on  a  dol- 
lar-ten a  day. 


154 


THE  DUD 

I  was  stowed  away  down  in  a  hole, 

As  happy  and  snug  as  could  be  — 

With  never  a  care  on  my  soul  — 

Just  wishin'  'twas  time  for  my  tea. 

With  never  a  sign  of  a  care, 

An'  never  a  trouble  in  sight, 

When,  shrill  in  the  air,  an'  a-comin'  for  fair, 

I  hears  a  big  Krump  on  a  flight, — 

A  blurry  big  Krump  on  the  wing, 
An'  I  knew  she  was  comin'  my  way ; 
But  there  wasn't  a  single  darn'  thing 
I  could  do,  or  could  think,  or  could  say. 
That  would  do  me  a  cent's  worth  of  good  — 
'Cept  to  sit  there  an'  wait  for  the  bump  — 
Well,  that's  how  things  stood.     I'd  'a'  run  if  I 

could, 
But  —  I  can't  run  as  fast  as  a  Krump. 

So  I  flops  on  my  face  in  the  dirt. 
An'  I  lays  there  most  humble  an'  flat, 

155 


THE  DUD 

With  my  spine  creepin'  under  my  shirt, 

An'  my  hair  pushin'  up  my  tin  hat, 

With  the  fear  of  death  freezin'  my  blood  — 

An'  I  hope  it  won't  hurt  when  I  goes  — 

Then  —  a  whizz,  an'  a  thud  —  an'  she  plunks  in 

the  mud, 
A  bloomin'  short  yard  from  my  nose. 

Then  I  lays  there  for  ages  untold, 

A-waitin'  the  end  of  the  game, 

While  burnin'  hot  shivers  an'  cold 

Keep  chasin'  themselves  round  my  frame. 

Till  it  strikes  me  my  luck's  runnin'  well. 

An'  I'm  not  booked  for  Paradise  yet  — 

For  that  blasted  big  shell  is  as  harmless  as  hell 

An*  she  couldn't  explode  on  a  bet. 

She  was  only  a  dud  —  just  a  dud  — 

Just  as  tame  as  a  two-day-old  pup ; 

But,  a-waitin'  for  her  in  the  mud, 

I  got  the  wind  properly  up. 

She  was  perfectly  harmless,  *tis  true, 

I  can  think  of  her  now  with  a  smile, 

But  —  the  hell  I  went  through  for  a  second  or 

two 
Will  last  me  the  deuce  of  a  while. 

156 


CROSSES 

Little  white  crosses,  crowded  row  on  row, 
And  crimson  poppies  thronging  thick  between, 
(The  blood-stained  flowers,  that  nowhere  seem 

to  grow 
So  rich  as  where  the  hand  of  war  has  been). 
Little  white  crosses,  and  their  tale  is  brief  — 
"  Name,  Number,  Killed  in  Action,  R.  L  P."— 
No  word  of  pain  or  pride,  of  hope  or  grief; 
No  graven  boast  for  all  the  world  to  see. 

Little  white  crosses,  dressed  as  on  parade, 
That  thrill  and  quiver  to  the  great  guns'  roar; 
No  prouder  monument  needs  he  who's  laid 
To  sleep  in  Flanders,  be  he  rich  or  poor  — 
Gentle  or  simple  —  saint  or  branded  thief. — 
What  marble  can  replace  that  plain  tin  plate 
That  blazons  forth  its  tale  so  brave  and  brief  — 
Whose  ''  killed  in  action "  crowns  him  of  the 
great. 


157 


CROSSES 

'Neath  a  tall  marble  shaft  a  man  may  lie ; 

A  deep-carved  catalogue  of  all  he  did 

May  shout  to  every  curious  passer-by 

How  great  a  man  was  he  whose  bones  lie  hid 

Beneath  the  stone  — "  In  all  things  he  did  well  — 

Served  well  his  country  —  helped  to  make  her 

laws  — 
Who  may  his  many  virtues  hope  to  tell  — 
His  open  heart  and  hand  for  each  just  cause?'* 

Take  you  your  marbles.     Any  man,  for  gold, 
May  sleep  beneath  a  carven  shaft  of  stone; 
(A  shaft  that  bears  deep-graven,  plainly  told, 
Virtues,  perhaps,  that  he  has  never  known). 
But  "  Killed  in  Action  "  on  a  stamped  tin  plate, 
Nailed  to  a  wooden  cross,  'mid  poppies  red  — 
(The  crosses  stand  like  soldiers  still  and  straight), 
Is  fitter  far  to  mark  a  brave  man's  bed. 


158 


TWO  MEN 

Bill  Jones  was  pretty  useless  — 
Not  good  for  very  much; 
He  worked  just  when  he  had  to, 
He  drank  to  beat  the  Dutch. 
All  decent  people  cut  him 
Whene'er  he  mixed  with  such. 

Tom  Smith  had  all  the  virtues  — 
Swore  by  the  Golden  Rule, 
He  passed  the  plate  on  Sunday 
And  taught  the  Sunday  School. 
(He  used  to  speak  of  Billy 
As  a  "  poor  misguided  fool  "). 

EIll's  past  was  rather  shady. 

As  everybody  knew, 

Good  people  used  to  whisper 

("Strictly  'twixt  me  and  you") 

Tales  that  were  far  from  pretty  — 

And  some  of  them  were  true. 

159 


TWO  MEN 

While  Tom  Smith's  snow-white  record 

Held  neither  spot  nor  stain. 

He'd  never  shocked  the  village 

Or  caused  good  people  pain. 

He  knew  the  worth  of  virtue, 

And  used  it  —  to  his  gain. 

Bill  Jones,  he  joined  the  army 
As  soon  as  war  began; 
He  wasn't  any  angel 
But,  still,  he  was  a  man. 
And  soldier,  as  civilian, 
Bill  was  an  ''  also  ran." 

But  Tom,  whose  tender  conscience 
Could  not  approve  of  war. 
Took  on  an  army  contract 
And,  though  it  grieved  him  sore, 
Took  cent  per  centum  profit  — 
'Cos  he  could  get  no  more. 

Bill  Jones  went  out  to  Flanders, 
(A  most  unhealthy  spot, 
Where  men  die  every  minute 
And  Hell  is  served  up  hot). 
A  strafe  one  misty  morning. 
And  —  Billy  Jones  was  not. 
1 60 


TWO  MEN 

Tom  Smith,  more  full  of  wisdom, 

Stayed  home  and  served  the  State 

By  making  army  blankets 

At  quite  a  decent  rate, 

And,  with  an  easy  conscience, 

On  Sundays  passed  the  plate. 

A  wooden  cross  in  Flanders 
Shows  where  Bill  Jones  is  laid 
To  wait  the  great  Reveille 
That  calls  the  last  parade. 
The  debts  that  Bill  contracted 
Are  now  most  fully  paid. 

Tom  Smith  is  in  his  home  town 
And  there  intends  to  stay, 
His  business  is  expanding 
In  a  most  amazing  way; 
The  balance  in  his  bank-book 
Grows  bigger  every  day. 

A  "  rising  business  man,"  Tom  Smith  — 

Safe,  prosperous,  and  free. 

One  of  the  pillars  of  the  Church  — 

But,  God!  if  he  could  see 

How  stands  that  wastrel  dead  in  France 

Beside  such  men  as  he. 

i6i 


FAGS 

When  the  cold  is  making  ice  cream  of  the  marrow 

of  your  bones, 
When  you're  shaking  like  a  jelly  and  your  feet 

are  dead  as  stones, 
When  your  clothes  and  boots  and  blankets,  and 

your  rifle  and  your  kit, 
Are  soaked  from  Hell  to  Breakfast,  and  the  dug- 
out where  you  sit 
Is  leaking  like  a  basket,  and  upon  the  muddy  floor 
The  water  lies  in  filthy  pools,  six  inches  deep  or 

more ; 
Tho'  life  seems  cold  and  mis'rable  and  all  the 

world  is  wet. 
You'll  always  get  thro'  somehow  if  you've  got 

a  cigarette. 

When  you're  lying  in  a  listening  post  'way  out 

beyond  the  wire. 
While  a  blasted  Hun,  behind  a  gun,  is   doing 
rapid  fire; 
•    •  162 


FAGS 

When  the  bullets  whine  above  your  head,  and 
sputter  on  the  ground, 

When  your  eyes  are  strained  for  every  move, 
your  ears  for  every  sound  — 

You'd  bet  your  life  a  Hun  patrol  is  prowling 
somewhere  near; 

A  shiver  runs  along  your  spine  that's  very  much 
like  fear; 

You'll  stick  it  to  the  finish  —  but,  I'll  make  a  little 
bet, 

You'd  feel  a  whole  lot  better  if  you  had  a  ciga- 
rette. 


When  Fritz  is  starting  something  and  his  guns 

are  on  the  bust 
When  the  parapet  goes  up  in  chunks,  and  settles 

down  in  dust. 
When  the  roly-poly  "  rum- jar  "  comes  a- wobbling 

thro'  the  air, 
Til  it  lands  upon  a  dugout  —  and  the  dugout 

isn't  there; 
When  the  air  is   full  of  dust,  and  smoke,  and 

scraps  of  steel,  and  noise 
And  you  think  you're  booked  for  golden  crowns 

and  other  Heavenly  joys, 

163 


FAGS 

When  your  nerves  are  all  a-tremble,  and  your 

brain  is  all  a-f ret  — 
It  isn't  half  so  hopeless  if  you've  got  a  cigarette. 

When  you're  waiting  for  the  whistle  and  your 

foot  is  on  the  step, 
You  bluff  yourself,  it's  lots  of  fun,  and  all  the 

time  you're  hep 
To  the  fact  that  you  may  stop  one  'fore  you  ve 

gone  a  dozen  feet, 
And  you  wonder  what  it   feels  like,  and  your 

thoughts  are  far  from  sweet; 
Then  you  think  about  a  little  grave,  with  R.  I.  P. 

on  top. 
And  you  know  you've  got  to  go  across  —  altho' 

you'd  like  to  stop ; 
When  your  backbone's  limp  as  water,  and  you're 

bathed  in  icy  sweat, 
Why,  you'll  feel  a  lot  more  cheerful  if  you  puff 

your  cigarette. 

Then,  when  you  stop  a  good  one,  and  the  stretcher 

bearers  come 
And  patch  you  up  with  strings,  and  splints,  and 

bandages,  and  gum; 
164 


FAGS 

When  you  think  you've  got  a  milUon  wounds  and 
fifty  thousand  breaks, 

And  your  body's  just  a  blasted  sack  packed  full 
of  pains  and  aches; 

Then  you  feel  you've  reached  the  finish,  and 
you're  sure  your  number's  up, 

And  you  feel  as  weak  as  Belgian  beer,  and  help- 
less as  a  pup  — 

But  you  know  that  you're  not  down  and  out,  that 
life's  worth  living  yet, 

,When  some  old  war-wise  Red  Cross  guy  slips 
you  a  cigarette. 

We  can  do  without  MacConachies,  and  Bully, 

and  hard  tack, 
When  Fritz's  curtain  fire  keeps  the  ration  parties 

back; 
We  can  do  without  our  greatcoats,  and  our  socks, 

and  shirts,  and  shoes, 
We  might  almost  —  tho'  I  doubt  it  —  get  along 

without  our  booze; 
We  can  do  without  "  K.  R.  &  O.,"  and  "  Military 

Law," 
We  can  beat  the  ancient   IsraeHtes  at  making 

bricks,  sans  straw; 

165 


FAGS 

We  can  do  without  a  lot  of  things  and  still  win 

out,  you  bet, 
But  I'd  hate  to  think  of  soldiering  without  a 

cigarette. 

{Reprinted  by  permission  of  The  Imperial  To- 
bacco Company,  Ltd.,  Newfoundland,  owners 
of  the  copyright,)^ 


i66 


ZERO  MINUS  ONE 

The  G.  O.  C.  is  sitting  in  his  office  all  alone ; 

The  Brigadier  has  got  his  ear  glued  to  the  tele- 
phone ; 

The  Colonel  tunes  his  nerves  up  with  a  modest 
shot  of  Scotch ; 

The  Sub  up  in  the  trenches  takes  a  dekko  at  his 
watch ; 

While  Tommy  wallows  in  the  mud  and  damns 
things  in  a  heap, 

And  wonders  just  what  brand  of  time  official 
watches  keep. 

For  it's  just  a  minute  to   Zero,   just 

sixty  seconds  to  wait, 
Then  we're  over  the  top  with  the  best  of 

luck  to  finish  the  job  in  state. 
We're  very  fed  up  and  far  from  home, 

though   we're    doing   our   best   to 

smile. 
For  the  sixty  seconds  before  things  start 

is  a  hell  of  a  weary  while. 
167 


ZERO  MINUS  ONE 

The  Gunners  all  are  waiting  and  the  shells  are 
stacked  up  high; 

The  Battery  Commander  counts  the  seconds  drag- 
ging by; 

The  targets  all  are  spotted  and  the  barrage  maps 
are  set; 

There's  not  a  detail  missing  —  but,  there's  sixty 
seconds  yet. 

And  Tommy's  somewhere  up  the  line,  fed  up  and 
sick  and  sore, 

There  never  was  a  minute  half  so  blasted  long 
before. 

For  it's  just  a  minute  to  Zero,  in  sixty 

seconds  you  start ; 
The  chill  works  up  from  your  frozen 

feet  and  settles  around  your  heart. 
You're   far   from  keen  on  the  killing 

game  —  you're  not  very  stuck  on 

strife, 
But  that  minute  waiting  for  things  to 

start  is  the  longest  in  all  your  Hfe. 

The  mud  is  squelching  in  your  boots,  the  rain 
beats  in  your  eyes ; 


j68 


ZERO  MINUS  ONE 

A  little,  dirty  streak  of  dawn  creeps  up  the  east- 
ern skies; 

The  wind  sweeps  over  No  Man's  Land  and  cuts 
you  Hke  a  knife; 

You  never  felt  so  rotten  cheap  in  all  your  lengthy 
life. 

Your  backbone's  full  of  shivers  and  your  heart  is 
full  of  fears. 

That  cursed  minute  drags  along  for  fifty  miUion 
years. 

For  it's  just  a  minute  to   Zero,   just 

sixty  seconds  to  go; 
That  don't  seem  long  if  you  say  it  quick, 

but  it's  dragging  almighty  slow. 
The  guns  are  waiting  —  the  Gunners, 

too  —  to  start  up  their  Hymn  of 

Hate; 
But  the  sixty  seconds  before  things  start 

is  a  hell  of  a  time  to  wait. 


169 


^ggljl 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


■    % 

1      sji0rt'6SJ0 

Hec'o  Ln 

OCT  11 '6/5 -4  pu 

*'*'    ^  llfl 

/ 

/ 

/ 

/ 

/ 

/ 

LD  21A-60m-3,'65                              TTni^                     / 
(F2336sl0)476B                               "^*"^^    ^                / 

ivi2685;24 


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